


to love is to bleed, will you call the doctor for me?

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, One Night Stand, copious references to nineties technology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-09 12:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11104881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Gary Neville is twenty-three years old. He hasn't gotten laid in three years and after a heartwrenching loss to Argentina in the 1998 World Cup, he snaps and goes out to a gay bar.“I’m a medical student,” Carra says, tone much too modest for the wolfish grin on his face, “I know my anatomy.”“And mine, too, apparently.”Gary’s well and truly fucked. In all senses of the word, actually.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s been awhile. That’s Gary’s excuse. It’s been a long, _long_ time since he’s gotten laid, and he’s just fucking _tired_ of wanking to stupidly exaggerated and criminally unrealistic porn. Besides, he only has the one tape and a few old magazines—it’s hardly enough wank material for a man for three years, though his imagination helps, and so does his work, which allows him to see fit naked men on a daily basis. Gary’s subtle, but he does have eyes, after all, and he does look, sometimes.  
  
He’s just come back from the 1998 World Cup in France, a little (okay, a lot) worse for wear, losing to Argentina in the Round of 16. He fucking _hated_  penalties. Maybe if he’d taken one instead of fucking _Batty_ , they’d have made it.  
  
_That’s football_ , people had said after he’d come home. But he didn’t want to talk about fucking football anymore. He didn’t want to watch football, he didn’t want to train, he didn’t want to so much as _see_ a ball for the next two weeks, before preseason training started up again. He wanted to fuck and forget. He wanted to forget Argentina, wanted to forget about the fact that Becks had gotten himself kicked out of the game. If he’d managed to stay on, he would’ve taken a pen for sure, and he would definitely have made it. It was uncomfortable enough, holding this secret disappointment and resentment towards his best mate, even without considering the unrequited love he’d had for David for years on end.  
  
David was just… golden. He was supposed to be golden. He had always been that way, warm with sunshine hair, popular and approachable and funny and charming in a way Gary got to see up close, but never quite have.  
  
Gary isn’t sixteen anymore. Wanking off is fine for the most part—especially during the season when he’s on a strict schedule, but he’s _twenty-three_. His teammates are starting to settle down, find proper long-term, girlfriends. They have someone to go home to, someone to rant to about bad results, someone to hold them at night. Someone to make love to after trophies, someone to lose themselves in after losses.  
  
Gary doesn’t. He’d tried dating girls, but it hadn’t gone well—it had just been living alone, but with someone else. Or living with a friend. It hadn’t been enough.  
  
Gary’s way too young to be coming home from team parties feeling empty and lonely. He’s getting jaded, he can feel it. Bottom line is, he’s desperate to have a real man again. Even if they don’t sleep together. He just needs to go out and flirt with someone, to have someone actually show some sort of interest in him. Someone with a dick. Maybe he can get a kiss off a hot stranger, at best, before he gets recognized and has to disappear.  
  
  
He drives an hour and half, to get away from Manchester, can’t risk being seen—he’s still young, but he’s broken through, both at United and for England. After Euro ’96 had been held in England, it had been hard to go out and about, especially in Manchester, where he was a local boy turned good, the sort of lad whose time people felt entitled to because he was one of their own. After the World Cup, it’d been nearly impossible. If there was one thing the British public loved, it was misery—the pictures of him weeping into Becks’ chest had made it into all the papers, the golden boy comforting the heartless, ill-tempered kid whose problem, it turned out, was caring _too much_.  
  
It’s his first time trying this—it’s been three years since he’d last slept with a man. He’d been drunk, the boy’d been cute and stupid and hadn’t known who he was, and that had been all Gary’d needed.  
  
But it’s been a long time, is the point, and Gary’s desperate enough that he doesn’t even care anymore, and so he goes out to a gay bar, driving an hour and a half away from home to Birmingham, trying to increase his chances of anonymity. The bar’s called _Desires_ or something equally salacious, and there are a lot of lads in, and a few women, too, making eyes at each other or sticking close to the friends that had brought them.  
  
He settles at the bar, ordering a beer. He’d just come home from the fucking World Cup, he was allowed to drink again. Hell, he’d just _come home from the World Cup_. If there was one thing he needed, it was booze.  
  
He drains half of his drink in one go, then sips at the other half, more slowly. It eases a tension in him, the alcohol. It doesn’t take much, for him to get a nice little buzz. He’s not there yet, but he’s not far off. He takes a deep breath, and he’s just about to order another, when a man slides into the barstool next to him.  
  
“Buy your next drink?” he asks politely, signaling the bartender and ordering his own pint.  
  
Gary smirks at his nearly empty glass and drains the last of it in three large gulps. He can feel the man watching his throat swallow.  
  
“Please,” he says, turning to look at the lad. He’s got average looking hair, short back and sides, but he’s wearing a tight t-shirt that shows off his chest and his arms, and dark jeans. He can’t quite make out the color of his eyes in the dimly lit bar, behind thick-framed glasses that sit well on his face, but they’re light-colored, not dark like Gary’s own. He has hollow cheeks with high, striking cheekbones that highlight his mouth. And his mouth… Gary can barely take his eyes off of his full lips, lips he’d rather like to see wrapped around his cock, cheeks hollowing even more as he took Gary in further...  
  
“I’m Jamie,” Mystery Guy says, offering Gary a hand, “Jamie Carragher. Me mates call me Carra, though.” He doesn’t have a Brummie accent, peculiarly enough.  
  
Gary shakes his hand and almost lets his real name slip out of his mouth. “I’m… David. Nice to meet you. What’s—“ He pauses, trying to word the question politely.  
  
“A boy like me doing in a place like this?” Carra teases, leaning in a little. He pulls off his glasses and places the end of them between his parted lips, pink tongue peeking out as he properly looks at Gary, takes in every detail of him with bright, intelligent eyes. “Looking for a boy like you, of course.” He leans in closer and brushes something off of Gary’s shirt. “Sorry, mate, you had a little thread or something.”  
  
“I was gonna say what’s a Scouser doing in Birmingham, actually.” Gary hates most Scousers, comes with his upbringing, really—plus, if Paul fucking Ince had just _scored his penalty_ , maybe they wouldn’t have been knocked out of the World Cup—but this one is so _handsome_ , and he’s _gay_ , and he’s _interested_ , and Gary really isn’t in a place to be blowing his chances.  
  
Unless ‘blowing his chances’ is a euphemism for sucking Carra’s cock in the toilets.  
  
In which case he’d love to.  
  
“I’m a student,” Carra says, “and you’re, what, a Manc? Mancunian, I mean.” He’s blushing now, from the unexpected slip. He must not like Mancs, either. And yet here they are. “You’re a ways from home too, lad.”  
  
“I’m… a student, too,” Gary lies. “Studying… history. You?”  
  
“Medicine. It’ll be Doctor Carragher, one day. I’m young yet, only in my third year, but… one day. I love history, though. Did my A Levels and everything, and I do a lot of reading about it on my own, or I used to, back when I had a life and free time—I was really interested in the Great Leap Forward in China and the Meiji era in Japan—pulling countries forward at hyperspeed like that, it was odd to see what worked and what didn’t. And then the Perónistas in Argentina—I thought Juan and Eva’s relationship was incredibly complicated, and the mechanics of the party—cradle-to-grave recruiting, it seemed so effective. And then I liked Ancient Rome, too. The myths were full of gore and sex and everyone was gay, I thought it was heaven.”  
  
“Yeah…” Gary hates himself. The Great Leap Forward? Meiji Japan? The Perónistas in… where was it again? Armenia? He’d been focusing more on the shape of Carra’s mouth when he’d been talking than on the words he’d said. “I tend to focus on Europe, mostly.”  
  
“Oh, god of course! I should have asked! I really love the arc from the French Revolution to now—it’s so interesting to see national sovereignty really crystallizing, especially after the 1848 revolutions, to watching it become a threat, and watching European solidarity and a desire to maintain stability reforming as a force to influence policy after the First and Second World Wars. The EU as an institution, too, is just so _innovative,_ it’ll be really exciting to see how it unfolds, going forward—“  
  
“Yeah,” Gary agrees weakly, having absolutely nothing to say on the subject, “but tell me about you, babe, that’s what I’m interested in. Third year, you said, right? That makes you twenty-one? Or is it twenty-two, did you take a gap year?”  
  
“Twenty. I skipped a year at school.” Jamie’s blushing—he must feel self-conscious about his age. Most kids when to uni late, not early, took a year off to work or travel or party instead of working their asses off to get in early. There was something remarkably familiar to the story. Gary’d been United’s first-choice right back by the time he was twenty.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be home studying _anatomy_ , Dr. Carragher?” Gary asks flirtatiously, “Or are these just for show?” He leans in close to Carra and taps a fingertip gently to the frame of his glasses.  
  
“I study all the time. Look, Dave, clinicals are fucking _killing_  me. I haven’t been eating properly. I’ve been sleeping in on-call rooms for a couple hours a night, and I have crazy insomnia, so I spend almost all night reading up on statin dosages and motility issues and emphysema, how to call a code, reviewing CPR, putting in a IV, that sort of thing. I was too busy to even watch the _World Cup_ , mate. _And_ the Euros two years ago. I just—I _need_ to cut loose. After this next drink, will you dance with me?”  
  
“Yes,” Gary breathes. He downs the drink quickly, and Carra does too.  
  
Carra turns heads on the dance floor, and he dances like he was born to do it, pulls Gary’s hands to his hips and moves them fluidly. He wraps his arms around Gary’s neck, and starts moving, and Gary— _fuck_ , Gary might actually be in _love_. With Carra’s hips, if not with Carra himself. It’s so clear that he only has eyes for Gary that most of the interest dissipates, other than the few glares Gary feels aimed at his back. He turns around and Gary stares shamelessly at his ass as he moves to the music. He grabs at Gary’s hips and pulls him impossibly closer, until he’s flush against Carra’s ass, and then he grinds on him, and Gary’s not even ashamed to find that he’s already hard.  
  
Jamie turns around so they’re chest to chest, Gary’s hands resting on his waist. For a single moment, they’re standing under the green lights on the dance floor, and Jamie’s head is thrown back, eyes closed, glasses reflecting the lights, mouth hanging open, and Gary wonders if this is what he looks like when he comes, and if he hadn’t been hard from the dancing, this singular moment would have done it. This whole trip is worth it, for this moment. He’s going to replay that moment in his mind for the rest of his life, probably. Or the next three years, at least.  
  
He stumbles forward and presses his mouth to Carra’s, and suddenly they’re still, in amongst the crowd of dancers. They’re standing completely still as Gary licks his way into Carra’s mouth. Carra starts rolling his hips again, slower and harder against Gary’s. They keep kissing for several long moments, until Gary pulls away, to keep himself from coming in his pants like a sixteen year old virgin.  
  
“Do—do you live close by?” Gary asks, mouth near Carra’s ear, pulling his earlobe into his mouth and grazing it with his teeth before he presses a line of wet, messy kisses down his neck, all the way down to the collar of his shirt.  
  
Carra lets out a downright _pornographic_ moan, and nods, pulling on Gary’s hand. “It’s just two streets away, we can walk,” he says. And then it’s a warm July night, and Gary Neville’s holding a Scouser’s hand, walking down two streets in Birmingham to a building that’s clearly student housing. Gary’s never actually been in student housing, and he’s bizarrely excited, about all of it, though maybe that’s just the buzz of the alcohol mixing in nicely with the high he’d gotten from kissing a real actual human man. Jamie unlocks the front door to a building and they take the elevator to the fifth floor.  
  
“Roommate?” Gary asks as they step out of the elevator, pinning Carra to a wall in the hallway and kissing him hungrily.  
  
“No,” Carra gasps, “not this year. Worked more to pay rent.”  
  
Gary suddenly feels half-guilty—he’d been mentally whining about how hard it was being part of an England squad that had been knocked out of the World Cup so early, and here was this kid, younger than him, smarter than him, just as hard-working, and yet he was struggling.  
  
Carra pulls him in for another kiss, sliding his hands into the back pockets of Gary’s jeans to press their erections together. He tugs Gary down the hallway until they stop at a door, and Gary can’t help it—he kisses him again. “It’s not much,” Jamie says modestly as he flicks on the lights. He’s right. It isn’t much. A little studio apartment, a tiny kitchen with a little fridge and a two-burner stove, toaster and coffeemaker sitting front and center on the countertop, with a microwave tucked in a corner.  
  
The twin bed is in the far corner, and there are two doors on the wall nearest the entrance—closet and bathroom. There’s a little sofa, covered in notes except for a small spot where Carra clearly sits, and a coffee table in front of it, laden with books and a single mug full of pens. There’s a bookshelf, too, full to bursting, with medical textbooks and some history books, and falling-apart paperbacks held together by hope and gaffa tape.  
  
“Do you, uh, want something to drink?” Jamie asks, breath ragged, as if it’s not a completely ridiculous question. Gary raises an eyebrow, pulls away from him, and strips his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor.  
  
“ _Holy fuck_ , you’re gorgeous,” Jamie whispers reverently, “I mean, I knew that from the second I saw you, but _Jesus_ _Christ_ , your body is so fucking _perfect_ , Davey—“  
  
Gary comes close and leans up to kiss him again—Carra’s just barely taller than him and it’s perfect.  
  
He pulls away and yanks his jeans and his boxers down with one harsh tug. He kicks off his shoes and rips off his socks, a little awkwardly, but it gets the job done, and eventually he’s standing completely naked in a stranger’s flat.  
  
“Patience, babe,” Carra murmurs, stripping a little more slowly. He’s gentle with the sea-green t-shirt that’s seen more than a few washes, careful not to jar his glasses when it goes over his head and lands on the floor. He unbuttons his jeans and undoes his fly before he pulls them down, and the boxers follow after, more quickly. The thought strikes Gary that maybe he doesn’t have many extra clothes to be careless with these ones. Or maybe it just speaks to a physician’s mind—meticulous, exact. Finally, they’re both standing naked, and it’s quiet for a moment.  
  
“God, you’re so fit,” Gary says admiringly, looking at Carra’s body. He has a strong chest and strong arms, and his stomach is flat and just slightly defined. It’s not quite a six pack like Becks, but it’s _realer_ , almost, because working out isn’t Jamie’s entire job. His stomach doesn’t suggest a desire to show off for magazines or pretty girls so much as it does inadequate nutrition and chronic overwork. He feels a pang in his chest as he wonders suddenly if Carra gets his three square meals a day, or if he’s ever had to ration things or skip meals, towards the end of the month.  
  
Either way, his body is perfection defined, as far as Gary’s concerned.  
  
_Except._  
  
There are a bunch of jagged scars running down from where Carra’s belly button should be.  
  
Gary stares at them for a few seconds, then looks back up, at Jamie’s face. The sexual tension abates, the moment palpably stutters, and Jamie looks disappointed and a little tired, all of a sudden, even though he’s three years younger than Gary.  
  
He sighs and glances back down at his shirt, but doesn’t bend to pick it up. “It was a long time ago. I’m perfectly fine now. I can still have a normal life, don’t worry. Sex included.”  
  
There’s a story there, and Gary’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious—he is, definitely, but he lets it go in favor of the immediate goal.  
  
“Top or bottom?” He asks Carra, “I’m good with either.”  
  
“Me too. You’re my guest, babe, tell me what you want.”  
  
“I need you,” Gary whispers, “I need you inside me.”  
  
That breaks the stillness of the moment, and suddenly, Jamie’s on him, pushing him towards the bed, mouth latched on to Gary’s, until the back of his knees hit the bed and he lets himself collapse onto it. He moves to lay on his back and spreads his legs, cock standing proudly, hard and leaking. Jamie looks at him appreciatively as he digs through his nightstand drawer and pulls out a condom—he struggles a bit, it’s a new box, still sealed shut, and a jar of lube, not new, but nearly—either Carra got laid a lot, or… Or he never did, and Gary suspects the latter.  
  
Carra’s fingers are steady as he slicks them up. He kisses Gary as he pushes inside him, fingers finding his prostate faster than anyone’s ever found it before—himself included.  
  
“Fucking _hell_ —“ he gasps.  
  
“I’m a _medical student_ ,” Carra says, tone much too modest for the wolfish grin on his face, “I know my anatomy.”  
  
Gary makes a mental note to fuck more doctors to determine if this is in fact true, or if Carra is just an incredible exception. “And mine, too, apparently.”  
  
The grin becomes a smirk as he teases Gary’s prostate expertly, opening him up. He hastily rolls on a condom, and pushes into him.  
  
“Oh, _fuck me_.”  
  
“N-next time. For now, you fuck me. _Please_. I _need_ you _—_ ” Gary says desperately.  
  
Carra closes his eyes for a moment, to savor the feeling of Gary around him, and then opens them again, to see Gary underneath him, to see the way his abs flex every time he leans up for a kiss.  
  
“Need you to kiss me.” It’s demanding, but unexpectedly soft from the guy who answered ‘do you want a drink’ by taking his clothes off. So Carra obeys, leaning in close to press his lips to Gary’s. He’s quiet, at first, relishing in the feeling of being full again.  
  
“Are you okay, love?” It comes out tenderer than Carra’d meant for it to, but it’s out now.  
  
“It’s—it’s been a really long time,” Gary admits, “I’ve needed this for a long time.”  
  
“Am I your… first?” Jamie asks apprehensively.  
  
“No! Oh, _god,_ no! You’re _not_ my first, babe. Just my first in a while.”  
  
Jamie still treats him like it’s his first time, though. He kisses him through it, and he moves slowly, pushing against Gary’s prostate on each thrust, until Gary’s got his eyes closed, and he’s begging him to please, just go _faster_ —  
  
“Please, _David_ , I _love_ you—“ Gary cries out.  
  
Jamie stills for a moment. It’s… not a good feeling. He’d actually thought they’d been hitting it off pretty well, until now. He bites back the urge to pull out and kick Gary out of his flat. Preferably naked, because he deserves it, for being an asshole. He doesn’t, though. Because it’s been awhile for Jamie, too, and he needs this just as much.  
  
“Not David,” Jamie growls, reaching forward to bite and suck at Gary’s neck with a possessiveness he hasn’t felt since he was sixteen with his first serious boyfriend. “It’s Jamie. _Jamie’s_ the one fucking you. Say it, Gary. Say my name. _My_ name _._ ” He picks up the pace. Trying to make love to this stranger had clearly been a serious mistake. His hips snap against Gary’s and his moans grow louder and more appreciative.  
  
“J-Jamie—sorry, I—sorry. _Jamie_ ,” Gary moans, eyes clearing up a bit. He _sees_ him properly now, Jamie can read it in his eyes. It isn’t going to happen again.  
  
“Keep your eyes open,” Jamie orders anyway, “I want you to know who’s doing this to you, and it _isn’t_ _David fucking_ _Beckham_.”  
  
“O- _okay_ ,” Gary cries, “just—I just need you. _Jamie_ , please!”  
  
He kisses him again, on the mouth, harsher than before. His hand is rough on Gary’s cock as he starts stroking him, fast—he doesn’t care about dragging this out anymore. Gary can feel the calluses at the bases of his fingers, like an athlete’s hand would have, like his own hands have, and later, when he’s not struggling not to come, he’ll wonders how Jamie the medical student got them.  
  
Jamie, meanwhile, barely even cares about getting off at this point. He just wants to give Gary the best sex of his life, and he just wants to imprint his name into his mind forever. Jamie. Jamie Carragher. _Not_ David Beckham.  
  
Jamie fucks him harder and faster until Gary lets out sounds that aren’t even words anymore, interspersed with his name. The right name—he’s careful to make sure. He can see every inch of Jamie’s face as he pushes into him. They’d left the lights on, and Gary can finally see his eyes—they’re vaguely ocean-colored, that strange stormy blue-green-gray.  
  
“Please—please, _Jamie_ , I’m so close—“  
  
“Come for me, Gary,” Jamie say softly as he leans down to kiss him again, a little kinder this time. He keeps pounding into him, and something about him, about his cock, about the angle, is perfectly suited to hit Gary’s prostrate every time, and he just can’t hold it off anymore—even this much is an achievement given how long it’s _been_ —  
  
Gary’s entire body tenses and he wraps his arms around Jamie’s neck to prolong the kiss as he comes in three long spurts. It’s all over his own stomach, and some gets on Jamie’s stomach too, because there’s almost no space left between them, and Jamie pushes him further, keeps thrusting until he spills too, into the condom.  
  
This is exactly what Gary’d needed—the closeness, the fucking, the tenderness of kissing juxtaposed with the harsh possessiveness—that sense of belonging to someone. He’d never had that with a man before. The closest feeling was Manchester United, and maybe that was sad, that a contract is the closest he’d had to wanting and being wanted in return.  
  
Jamie pulls out after he comes, stripping the condom off and tying it off before throwing it away into the bin by the bed. When Gary looks, he sees little notes in the bin too, on brightly-colored bits of paper _._  
  
_Get milk._  
_Meet Mickey?_  
_Juice expired._  
_Call Mickey._  
_EGGS,_ in all caps _._  
_Call Mickey’s_ _mum?_  
_Pick up extra shifts._  
  
There’s one that just says _FUCK YOU TOO, MICHAEL_.  
  
“You—you _are_ single, right?” he asks Jamie, half-afraid.  
  
“Free as a bird, love,” Jamie says airily, “let me just go get something to clean you up.”  
  
He gets up and heads into the bathroom to dampen a wash cloth to wipe them both off. He comes back and cleans Gary’s stomach off first, and then his own, tossing the washcloth into a laundry bin. He crawls back into bed and wraps his arms around Gary again. Gary’s so _warm_ , and it’s been so long since he was held by someone during his afterglow, and he might like this Scouser, just a little bit, and he’s tired…  
  
“Stay the night? I make a good breakfast.” Jamie’s kissing his neck again, soft, sleepy kisses that Gary’s never been lucky enough to have before, and even though it’s risky, even though Gary doesn’t much like the thought of this Mickey lad, he agrees.  
  
“Will you tell me about these?” he asks, pressing his fingers against the scars on Jamie’s belly.  
  
“I was just a baby.” He has a good storytelling voice, Gary notes. He presses a hand to Gary’s stomach, low on his abs. “You know your intestines are in here, right?” He moves his hand up, “your liver’s up here, on your right, bigger than you think, and your stomach is here, just under this wall of muscle called the diaphragm that helps you breathe, and then down here are the intestines.  
  
“Some of the organs, your heart,”—he places his finger over Gary’s heart and traces a little cartoon heart shape, making Gary melt a little, “—your lungs,” he moves his finger to either side of his heart and draws long ovals over Gary’s chest, and it feels brilliant, especially when his blunt fingernails graze over Gary’s nipples, “—they have their own little protective sacs. To protect them. Your intestines have one too, Gary. I was born with mine on the outside. Like a water balloon with my intestines just sort of… hanging out through a hole in my abdomen. I just grew that way, when mum was pregnant with me.”  
  
“ _Shit_.”  
  
“Kind of, yeah. But everything was fine, everything was functional, but they just needed to—it’s like opening up a teddy bear to put the stuffing back in. Surgical technology is a bit better now, they could have done it with less scarring, but. I survived, is the important thing. Didn’t lose even an inch of intestine.  
  
Gary traces the scars with a new reverence. “That’s… a lot, Jamie.”  
  
“Yeah. Didn’t even know babies normally came with belly buttons until my little brother came along, I thought everyone looked like me.”  
  
“I’m glad you’re okay.”  
  
Jamie hums a response, kissing his temple and holding him close.  
  
“Was that what made you want to be a doctor?”  
  
“It was part of it, I guess, though I didn’t really think about me. Thought about me mum. She used to talk about it a lot, how the doctors had saved her baby. I wanted to save people’s babies. It’s weird, but I kind of thought I _had_ to, to pay the world back, for letting me live. I thought it was my destiny or something. Kids think in weird ways, I guess. Anyway, I became a paramedic, before I started uni. I still pick up shifts at a few hospitals now, between classes and clinicals.”  
  
“You’re incredible,” Gary whispers, turning to look at him, searching his eyes for some sort of sign, “I don’t think enough people have told you yet that you’re incredible, and you—you just are.”  
  
“Thanks, love.” Gary’s afraid, for a moment, that Jamie will ask him about himself, about his work, but he doesn’t. He just lays there next to Gary, fingers running through his hair in a gesture that is by far too tender for a one night stand.  
  
“This is just—this is just a one-off,” Gary says cautiously.  
  
“I know. I could tell just by looking at you.” Jamie doesn’t seem to care, though, and Gary’s suddenly aware that as tall as he is, as strong as he is, as much as he’s seen—and Gary suspects he’s seen a lot—he’s still three years younger than him.  
  
“I wake up early. Might be gone by the time you wake.” He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but they’re sharing a twin mattress and he’s doing his absolute utmost to try to lower Jamie’s expectations for reasons he doesn’t quite understand himself.  
  
“Okay.” Jamie reaches across him for something—no, it’s to take off his glasses. He folds them carefully and puts them on his bedside table, far enough from the edge that they won’t fall.  
  
Gary closes his eyes. It was supposed to be a quick fuck—hell, he’d just been hoping for a _kiss_ , even the sex had been more than he’d expected. And yet, here he was, in a student housing building, sharing a single bed with possibly the most incredible man he’d ever met. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t ever supposed to _hurt_.  
  
If Gary could afford to fall in love—  
  
There is no _if_. He can’t, end of story.  
  
Jamie’s making soft shushing noises and holding him close, and he’s warm, but not too warm, and his fingers are in Gary’s hair. It’s almost like a dream, but Gary has to fall asleep before he can wake up and run away, so he does.  
  
  
  
The sun is what wakes him—the bed is right next to the window, probably exactly for this reason. He stirs, stretching himself awake with no thought as to the other person in the bed with him. He wakes suddenly, at the realization that there _is_ nobody else in bed with him. Instead Jamie’s in the kitchen, humming softly to himself as he makes breakfast—it smells like eggs.  
  
Gary _loves_ eggs _._  
  
He lets out an inarticulate grunt instead of saying hello, and Jamie smiles at him.   
“Morning, Gary. Poached, fried, or scrambled? I like mine scrambled with little bits of bell peppers and mushrooms and such, but I didn’t know how you took yours.”  
  
“Sunny side up, please.” Gary croaks, getting out of bed and looking for his clothes.  
  
His boxers are right near the bed, so are his jeans, but his t-shirt is… gone.  
  
“Behind the closet door,” Jamie says helpfully.  
  
That would do it. The closet door had been shut last night, but Jamie must have needed to get dressed this morning…  
  
Gary stops suddenly, taking in the poster of Michael Owen on the inside of the closet door.  
  
It’s signed, too.  
  
_To my favorite twat_  
_—With love, your Mickey Mouse_.  
  
Something else sinks in, a horrible truth that feels like ice down his spine.  
  
“I—I told you my name was David, in the club,” he says slowly, “but you called me Gary just now. And last night.”  
  
Jamie looks concerned, and a little embarrassed. “I didn’t call the press or anything,” he says quietly, “I know who you are. I just thought you deserved a normal night, for once. And being called the wrong name in bed doesn’t feel good.”  
  
Gary flushes at the reminder. “Sorry.”  
  
“It’s fine. And I won’t tell anyone, just so you know. You can have breakfast, I’ll give you a cap and some sunglasses, or a sweatshirt or something, nobody’ll recognize you. That’s what Mickey does, when he visits.”  
  
Mickey of the post it notes. That was _Michael Owen_. He fucking _hated_ Michael Owen, mostly because he was young and perfect and Scouse and a bitch to mark, but now for a whole _other_ world of reasons he doesn’t want to look at too closely.  
  
“How do you even know him? Is he your boyfriend?”  
  
“Mickey?! No! He’s just a kid! He’s a friend. He’s just a friend, Gary. We grew up together. Used to play together on the streets. I’m a couple years older than him, I used to mark him, that’s what made him so fast, you know. He, uh—never mind.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You can’t use it against him. He’s just a kid, Gary, and you’re twenty-three. It’s not fair to pick on someone five years younger than you.”  
  
“I won’t!”  
  
“He—he kissed me. Once. He was sixteen and I was eighteen. But I told him I couldn’t, that we’d have to wait until he got older.”  
  
“And this poster?”  
  
“A gift from him. So I’d have something to remember him by when I left home.”  
  
“Do you love him?”  
  
“I don’t have to answer that, Gary. I met you _last night_. Mickey’s an old friend and he’s none of your business. And if I hear about you messing with him or, God forbid, trying to _seduce_ him, when you’re away with England, you’ll be sorry. He’s… a good friend.”  
  
“Yeah? I can tell. Must be a great friend, considering you didn’t even watch the World Cup for him!”  
  
“First of all, fuck you. You know _less than nothing_ about me and Mickey—”  
  
“I know he signed off on your poster as Mickey Mouse, and if that’s not the fucking _stupidest_ thing I’ve ever heard—”  
  
“—And second of all, I did, actually. I didn’t watch the group stages—I was _working_. You probably haven’t worked a real job since what, your paper route when you were twelve? Nobody wanted to work during matches, but people still get sick and _die_ , so my supervisor offered us overtime. I… it broke my heart, but I needed the money. _You_ wouldn’t understand. And I watched the Round of 16. He got me a ticket, but I couldn’t go all the way to France. Watched it in a pub by the hospital instead. Still thought it was pretty shit of the team, though, giving a eighteen year old a penalty in the World Cup knockout rounds.”  
  
“He made it, though.”  
  
“I knew he’d _make_ it,” Jamie says simply, “that was never my concern. He shouldn’t have been in that position to begin with. And I’ve never liked Incey. He bullies the young kids on the team, and then he goes and blows his own fucking pen. Besides, you would’ve made yours, too, if they’d let you take one. And so would Beckham, I reckon, if he’d bothered staying around.”  
  
Gary instinctively doesn’t like the disdainful tone—he finds himself caught between the initial instinct to defend his best mate and the fact that he secretly agrees with Jamie on this. He wants to ask more about Owen, too. But Jamie’s made it pretty clear he’s not talking about it any more. He’d seemed okay, the kid, but now that he thinks about it, he’d been kind of a twat.  
  
“It was the ref’s fault,” he says eventually, looking around for a place to sit.  
  
“I know. It’s never the fault of the ones we love,” Jamie says quietly, “clear a space on the sofa, would you? And be careful with my notes? I really don’t want to have to redo clinical pharmacology of liver disease. And I have to loan these out to my mates to photocopy, too, the lazy dickheads.”  
  
“You have a lot of notes about him in your bin. About Owen.” Gary is careful with the notes as requested—he won’t be able to help fix them if he ruins them. He tries to keep them in some sort of order based on the numbers at the top right corner of the pages, but some of the pages don’t have numbers at all and some have letters and eventually he just makes a semi-orderly pile and sticks them on a corner of the coffee table where there are loads of medical textbooks.  
  
“I was trying to get ahold of him. He wouldn’t answer my calls, and then when I called his mum and she made him call me, he shouted at me over the phone. That’s just how he is. Said if I’d just been there, we would’ve won. He’s always won, when I’ve been in the crowd. But I—I had to work. Didn’t have a choice. And he’s young, he always takes things so personally... His mum said he kept going on about having disappointed me. As if I could _ever_ be disappointed in him! He just—he doesn’t have anyone else, to take things out on. I knew he would take it out on me, that’s why I kept calling. He needs… release, sometimes. Emotional release. Still upset me, though.”  
  
“You gonna tell him about this? About me?”  
  
“No, Gary, I’m not. As far as I’m concerned, I had a decent one night stand with David, the history student who knew nothing about history.”  
  
Gary’s grateful, in a bone-deep, profound way he almost can’t articulate.  
  
“I wish I _was_ Then I could see you again.”  
  
Jamie doesn’t respond, but he comes over and hands Gary a plate with two toasts and a couple of fried eggs. “Salt and pepper are on the counter, if it’s not to your taste. Butter for your toast should be on the counter or in the fridge.” Gary finishes up his breakfast—there’s coffee too, and he thinks regretfully that this boy is _perfect_.  
  
“Do you want me to walk you back to the bar? I’m guessing that’s where you left your car? Seeing as how Birmingham’s a bit beyond walking distance away from Bury.”  
  
“I—I don’t want anyone to see,” Gary says quietly, hating himself for saying it.  
  
“I understand.” Jamie smiles at him, and in the light of day, he really does look his age, though he is undoubtedly handsome.  
  
“It’s just a couple of streets over.” Gary shrugs a little.  
  
“I know.”  
  
Gary finishes the rest of his breakfast, asking a polite question about being a medical student, about Jamie’s clinicals, anything to make conversation.  
  
“One of my patients died. Day before yesterday,” Jamie says bluntly, as if he’s forcing himself to be dispassionate and it’s killing him, “I didn’t sleep all night, kept obsessively researching different meds, different therapies, even though it was too late. She was young—her mother was in there with her, and her boyfriend, it was—they were so young, so in love… She was fine, until all of a sudden she wasn’t anymore, and—it kinda broke me. I’ve gone over her case a thousand times—so I don’t miss it next time I see it. She wasn’t my patient—I’m just a student, but. One day I won’t be, and it’ll be on my head if the next one dies, when I am responsible.” He goes quiet for a moment.  
  
Gary doesn’t know what to do, so he moves in close and lays his head on Jamie’s shoulder. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t been bothered by the age gap—Jamie’s intense, in a way that Gary can knows all too well and simultaneously can’t even fathom.  
  
“Sorry,” Jamie mutters, slumping against the sofa, “it’s been a hard week. I just—I told you, I get insomnia. It’s pretty common, when you’re starting out in clinicals. I need to be tired before I can fall asleep. Physically tired. I go to the gym, I go boxing, but that wasn’t—just wasn’t enough the past couple days. Sex is better than sleeping pills, and there’s no hangover. Medicine… medicine breaks you down and forces you to remake yourself, and it’s still breaking me down.”  
  
Gary leans over and kisses him, because it’s all he can do, all that’s in his power to help this man who cares _so much_ —  
  
Jamie kisses him back, eager, as if their previous argument had been forgotten. He tastes of strong, bitter black coffee and a hint of mint toothpaste.  
  
They pull away and there’s something in Jamie’s eyes, some strange vulnerability that makes Gary ache in corners of his heart he thought he’d long since cordoned off.  
  
He knows it’s time to say goodbye, when he sees that look. Jamie walks him to the door, which isn’t saying much, really, considering his shoebox of an apartment.  
  
“Goodbye, David,” he says softly, leaning in to kiss Gary’s cheek before he opens the door.  
  
Gary smiles before he walks away and Jamie closes the door, sitting back down on the sofa to try to organize his notes and prepare for tomorrow’s cases.  
  
  
  
There’s a knock on the door again ten minutes later. It’s Gary, face flushed. Jamie opens the door and backs up to let him in.  
  
“Hey, did you forget some—“ Gary closes the door before he throws his arms around Jamie’s neck, pressing him against the wall and kissing him. Jamie kisses him back, once he recovers from the shock.  
  
“You know I can’t take you out,” Gary says when he pulls his mouth away from Jamie’s, reluctant, barely an inch of space between their lips, “and I wish I could, because you deserve it, Jamie Carragher, you fucking deserve _everything_ , but I _can’t_ —“  
  
“It’s okay, Gary,” Jamie’s voice is low, reassuring and his hands are rubbing Gary’s arms, trying to soothe him, “I don’t blame you for your job—“  
  
“No, I need you to _understand_ —I can’t do that for you, Jamie. _I can’t_. I can’t take you out to fancy restaurants or to the cinema or home for Christmas—none of that is on the table with me.”  
  
“I do understand, Gary. I understood all of that, that’s why this was a one-time thing.”  
  
“But it’s not,” Gary says desperately, “I don’t—I don’t want it to be a one-time thing, Carra. Please. Can I—can I come see you again? I’ll bring takeaway, we can watch a film on VHS or something—“  
  
“You’re in love with David Beckham, and I don’t have a telly,” Jamie says quietly, pushing him back a little, just enough that they both have some breathing room. “I think we both know that pretty well at this point. You should tell him. You two would look good together. If I was him, I’d hate to miss out on you just because I didn’t know you were interested.”  
  
“Becks? Becks has a girlfriend—probably. He goes through them proper quick, to be fair, but—he isn’t interested in men. He isn’t interested in _me_.”  
  
“And I’m… flattered, but I’m not really interested in being someone’s second choice, Gary, even if that someone is a rich, handsome professional footballer.” Jamie’s voice is gentle, but firm. “It’s up to you, you know him best, but I’d still say tell him. Maybe he’s only going through women so fast because he’s trying to get his mind off you. That’s what I’d do, if I was still in the closet and I had a lad like you as my best mate.”  
  
Nothing about this conversation is enough to make Gary stop wanting to drag Jamie back into bed. He wants that, he wants to kiss him and know how he takes his tea and how he got his calluses and how he met Michael Owen.  
  
“I want _you_ , Jamie, I do, really, I mean it—“  
  
“I’m sorry, Gary. I just don’t have time for a relationship at the minute. Even when I don’t have clinicals, I’m picking up as many shifts as I can physically handle. Me mum’s already raising my two brothers, she can’t afford to pay my bills on top of that. I’ll give you my phone number, you can call me every few days, if you want, and I have an email address from the hospital, if you wanna write me. But that’s all I can offer you right now.”  
  
“I’ll pay your bills. I’ll pay all of your bills, Jamie, anything to make things easier for you—“  
  
“Don’t be stupid,” Jamie says, voice cold and sharp for the first time since Gary’s known him, “I’m not a fucking hooker, I’m not fucking you to pay my bills. I don’t need _you_ to pay my bills. I’m doing fine for myself, thanks. Last night was great, I really needed it, and I think you really needed it, too, but now we’ve had it and we don’t need it anymore. That’s really the end of the conversation, as far as I’m concerned. Please leave my flat.”  
  
“Wait. Your phone number?”  
  
“Gary Neville, you’re a stubborn little shit, aren’t you?” Gary nods shamelessly, and Jamie barks out a laugh. “Mickey was right about that, at least. Even if you’re not quite the bellend he made you out to be.”  
  
He grabs a piece of paper—a post-it, actually, from his nightstand, and writes down his phone number and email address. He pauses and looks at Gary again, jotting down a few more lines.  
  
“Don’t send me weird shit in the mail, Gary, or I’ll mark it return to sender. But I dunno, if you wanna write me a letter or something, you can do that.”  
  
“I promise I won’t send you anything alive or dead or combustible or perishable in the mail. Or any other potentially weird shit.”  
  
“Here. I don’t want to be your boyfriend, Gary, not right now, that would only add stress to both our lives, but you have a friend, at least. Someone who knows you like men. And I’ve been told I have a good phone voice, I can get you off now and then. Friends with benefits, let’s say. You can come down now and then, we can sleep together, and then we can be friends the rest of the time, okay?”  
  
“I might not be good at it. I probably won’t be,” Gary says honestly, “I’ve never had anything like that before. I… I never really had the chance. You weren’t my first, Carra, but… there haven’t been many.”  
  
“You’re the sort of lad who wants a relationship,” Jamie says knowingly, “that’s why you’ve fallen in love with your best friend. You want more affection. I’m a medical student and you’re a professional footballer, love. I’m married to my schoolwork and you’re in love with your teammate. Even after I finish studying—if you still want me then—junior doctors have shitty schedules and shitty paychecks, Gary. It won’t be enough, you’ll want someone to cook you dinner and have sex with you every night, like your teammates have, and I just can’t be that guy. I’m sorry. It’s friendship or nothing, Gary. It has to be.”  
  
“Can I call you?” Gary asks, still mulishly hopeful. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by just taking no as an answer. Especially when Jamie hadn’t once said he didn’t _want_  him. Just that they _shouldn’t_ be together.  
  
Jamie laughs a little, past the pain in his eyes. “God, Gary, I do like you. So much. That’s the problem. Yeah, you can call me. I can’t promise I’ll always be around—sometimes I work the night shift because the pay’s better, but I’ll answer your calls if I’m home, lad. Promise.”  
  
“And can I come see you sometimes? When we’re both free?”  
  
“Sure, Gary. You can do that, as much as you’re comfortable with. You’re the one dealing with the press.”  
  
“I’ll come over, okay? I’ll bring you food, help you study, give you a blowjob after bad exam results... Not that you’re going to do badly on your exams! Just, in case you do. But I did mean it, I want to make things easier for you, if I can. And you can call me, too, if you have another day like you had a couple days ago. If you need to get off so you can sleep. I’ve never… done that with someone before, on the phone, but I want to, if it helps you. I want to.”  
  
“I… appreciate that, Gary, but I’m not a charity case.”  
  
“It’s not about that! I—I like you, okay? Honestly, I do. I care about you. I know it’s stupid, and early, but—“ Gary’s fucking this up, he knows he is, he’s getting it all wrong, but, he needs Jamie to _know_. Even if this is the last time he sees him. Especially then.  
  
Jamie softens and steps forward, back into Gary’s waiting arms, kissing him delicately on the cheek.  
  
“That all sounds great, Gary. But you’ve got to get home before you can call me, don’t you? Go on. Do you want me to walk you to your car?”  
  
Gary nods eagerly.  
  
“Kiss me goodbye, then. We won’t be able to when we leave.”  
  
Gary smiles at him and pulls him in for a long, slow, tender kiss.  
  
“That kiss did _not_ say friends with benefits,” Jamie says, mock stern, “we’ll have to work on that, next time you come round. At length. You can help me study anatomy. I’ll label all your muscles. With my tongue. Or maybe I’ll write on you, label everything. You’d have to be naked, though, to be my study guide. And I’ll pay you back by cleaning off all the ink and blowing you in the shower. Sound good?”  
  
Gary groans a little. “How am I supposed to leave when you say that sort of thing? You’re going to be the death of me, Carra.”  
  
“Come on, babe. You’ll have to learn how to deal with it, if you wanna be mine.” Jamie blushes a little, and Gary loves the color, has to touch it, and so he does, stealing a light caress of Jamie’s cheek. “Not that you _will_ be mine. And if it’s getting… out of hand, we’ll have to call it off, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Gary agrees, silently determined not to ruin this. It might be his only chance, at a relationship. And somewhere, in the parts of his heart he pretends don’t exist, he half-suspects Jamie Carragher loves fiercely and hurts just as much, and the last thing he wants is to hurt the boy in front of him.  
  
He waits for Jamie to lock up his flat before he takes his hand.  
  
Jamie gently slips his hand out of his grip. “I know you want to show me how you feel, Gary, but I don’t want you to suffer if this gets out. Friends walk side by side, but they don’t hold hands.”  
  
_Have you ever held hands with Mickey?_ Gary wants to ask, but that’s coming from the part of his brain that screams at referees and sort of wants to go knock Michael Owen’s lights out, so he ignores it.  
  
He agrees, but as they walk, he lets his arm swing a little more freely, lets his hand brush against Jamie’s now and then, just because he wants the touch. He isn’t touch starved, not by a long shot—footballers never are. But he wants Jamie’s touch, all of a sudden, wants to be touched by someone he has feelings for.  
  
They walk the two streets over far too quickly, and it hasn’t been nearly enough time before Gary’s sitting in his car, Jamie waving at him and waiting for him to pull out of the carpark before he turns around and walks back alone.  
  
By the time Gary goes to bed that night, he’s already got Jamie Carragher’s phone number memorized and written down in several different places so he can’t possibly lose it, even if he has a traumatic accident and gets amnesia like they did on that one medical drama on telly that one time.  
  
He wants to ask Jamie is that’s what amnesia is really like, and has to remind himself that that is not a sufficiently good reason for a phone call.

  
He calls anyway, to say thank you and leave Jamie his number.

Jamie doesn’t pick up the phone.

 

  
  
Gary’s well and truly fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

Gary doesn’t want to get his hopes up. He decides to give Jamie a day to call back before he quits hoping. He can forget Jamie’s number just as easily as he can remember it. Probably.

  
Jamie calls back the next day, just as Gary’s eating dinner in front of the telly.

  
“Hullo?”

  
“Hi, Gary? It’s Jamie, from last night. Night before, really. Anyway, sorry I missed your call, I was working last night. But I’m doing okay, mate, how are you?”

  
Gary plays with the cord a little, heart beating anxiously fast.

  
“I’m good.”

  
 _I haven’t stopped thinking about you_.

  
“How long are your holidays? Are you going anywhere special? I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to leave England for awhile, you know, after what’s happened.”

  
“I—I was thinking about Spain, for awhile. Somewhere warm. But I don’t want to go anywhere they care about football.”

  
“America, then?”

  
“I only have a couple of weeks left, and then I have to show up for preseason training. The other boys are already back, the non-internationals. I’m just—I’m just so fucking tired of football, J.”

  
“You’re twenty-three years old, doing what you’d dreamed of doing since you were a kid, Gaz.”

  
“I know. So are you, though. Except for the twenty-three years old part, I guess.”

  
“Yeah, I s’pose. Just goes to show how big my dreams were, doesn’t it?” Jamie laughs a little, and if there’s a hint of bitterness to it, Gary doesn’t comment.

  
“How was your shift last night?”

 

“Ugly. Car accident. The man wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, went through the windshield… my partner and I got him to the hospital, and then I went to the toilets and threw up before I went back to the ambulance.”

  
  
“I’m sorry.” Gary wonders if it’ll ever stop, the way Jamie’s everyday life jars him like this.

  
“Don’t be. Just, promise you’ll always wear your seatbelt? Spare the people who love you from having to see you like that. Besides, it’d be a real shame to mess up that pretty face of yours. A broken nose from the airbag is better than what can happen. What does happen.”

  
“I promise, love.” It’s a risk, tacking on the endearment at the end, but Jamie lets it slide. Maybe the car accident really did throw him off. Gary makes a mental note. Tough days at work mean he can be more affectionate.

  
“So you’ve got no plans for the next couple weeks?”

 

“I was thinking maybe I could come down to Birmingham for a day or so. Do you have a day off anytime soon? I’ll come, we’ll order pizza, we can sit on the sofa, sleep together a couple times, that’ll relax you, probably, and get you to sleep at night, at least…”

 

“I’d like that. When do you have to go back to training? Tell me and I’ll check my schedule and I’ll clear a day for you.”

 

“You’d do that?”

 

“If it’s already a day I have off from school, yeah, Gaz. I can always work an early morning after you’ve gone. I’ve been doing okay this month, anyway. Front loaded on shifts, we had a two week break between second and third year. I spent most of it in the back of the ambulance, had a day home with mum and the boys, so I’ve got a bit of wiggle room. Enough for a day off, at least.”

 

“Next week? Any day you’re free, J, I can drive over.”

 

“Wednesday?”

 

“Brilliant, Carra. I’d love that. I’ll see you then. You’ve probably got to study and stuff, I’m guessing? But thanks for calling me, I’m really glad to have heard from you.”

 

“Me too. This—talking to you, it actually helped. I was on edge all day until now. Thanks, Gaz. Have a good night.”

 

“Good night.” Gary waits until Jamie hangs up—a single moment of hearing his breath across the line before it goes dead—before he puts the receiver down.

 

He’s already planning the perfect day when he gets into bed. He’ll get takeaway from somewhere—Jamie’s a student, he won’t say no to free food, not when Gary brings it for their date. He’ll bring food and a six-pack of beer for them to work their way through, and they’ll sit on Jamie’s tiny little couch and talk, or listen to the radio and dance around Jamie’s flat.

 

He’ll tell Jamie everything—the first time he kissed a boy, why he’d lied to his mother about the bloody nose he’d gotten that day. Phil, crawling into his bed when he was young and having nightmares, looking for Gary to protect him. He’d tell him about Tracey, who was more tomboy than mum’s little princess, how his mother had swallowed her disappointment and let her daughter run around with the boys, washing the mud out of her ripped jeans and putting her hair into a braid so it stayed out of her way. Maybe Jamie would tell him things too—he didn’t seem to mind telling Gary things.

 

He falls asleep quickly, dreaming of Jamie. He takes him dancing, in the dream, takes him to the cinema. His dreams shift, though, to lazy kisses on Jamie’s sofa. Gary laying his head in Jamie’s lap as he studies, napping while his lover prepares for his exams. Sharing a bed. Kissing the frown off of Jamie’s face after a long day. Tracing the scars on his abdomen with his tongue, and then sinking lower, to take him into his mouth, to ease the tension in him—

 

He wakes up with a damp spot on his boxers and another on the sheets, still achingly hard. It’s been _years_ since he’s had a wet dream. He’s fucking _twenty-three years old_ , for Christ’s sake. He wanks himself off and comes with Jamie’s name on his lips. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s given himself in years.

 

He showers and thinks about Jamie doing the same thing, the way his biceps would flex as he washes his hair and the water dripping down his chest as he lathers himself up with soap, probably something with a plain clean scent that Gary could get used to having on his skin, too. It isn’t long before he’s hard again, touching himself again to the thought of Jamie’s legs around his hips in the shower, kissing him hard, their bodies slick with warm water.

 

It’s only Saturday. He still has four days until his day with Jamie—

 

He goes out on a run on Sunday, getting eight miles under his belt before he gets back home. He looks at himself naked in the mirror—Jamie had said his body was _perfect_. He can still hear it, a bit—the way the word had sounded in his Scouse accent. He smirks, determined not to disappoint. He goes out into the garden with a football and does some keepy ups, some situps, some pushups—it won’t make a difference, really, but it’s _something_ , at least. Something other than thinking about Jamie and wanking, which is a welcome change.

 

Gary calls again on Monday night, just to confirm. Jamie sounds tired on the phone, like he’s had a long day. But he agrees, tells Gary that he can show up anytime.

 

“Have a decent breakfast at home, Gary, and get some coffee or some tea or something. I don’t want you crashing because you were half asleep at the wheel. And please don’t show up at five in the morning telling me I said any time?”

 

Gary laughs. “No, course not. I probably won’t show up until eleven or so, so don’t worry, have a nap, sleep in, it’s fine.”

 

"Okay, see you then, Gary."  
  


Jamie goes out on Tuesday night and works a double shift.   
  


Gary is just pulling up to the building when he sees a bus pull up on the corner, and Jamie gets out, yawning and wearing a backpack. He's holding a cup of coffee and walking slowly back to his building, and Gary decides to walk in with him. He parks and takes out the burgers he'd brought with him, so Jamie could get a half decent meal, walking quickly to catch up to him. "Jamie? Hey, wait up!"

  
"Jesus  _Christ_ ," Jamie mutters, hand on his chest, "I thought you were coming to mug me, until you called my name. I was getting ready to punch you and run." He hugs Gary close anyway, though, and Gary's irrationally happy, holding him back tight.

   
"Did you—did you really think I was a mugger?”

  
"I’m walking alone, and you were running to catch up to me. It’s happened to other people. This isn't a good neighborhood, Gary. I hope you parked somewhere safe."

  
Gary shrugs a little and Jamie sighs. "You remember that lot you parked in before? Near the club? Come on, we're parking there, before someone smashes your windows or steals your hubcaps. You'll have to pay a few quid, but somehow I think you can manage, even on your meager salary, Gary."

  
Gary feels kind of stupid and young, but Jamie isn't being mean, he’s just looking out for him. Besides, he's coming too, not just sending Gary away to park and walk the two streets alone.

  
"Where were you?" Gary means it to be an innocent question, but it comes out a little wrong, as if he thinks he has the right to know. Jamie quirks a brow at him, and he flushes, but Jamie answers the question anyway, seeming to understand Gary isn’t being controlling, just awkward.

  
“Working. Been working since six last night. And I’m starving, mate, thank you for bringing food. You’re an absolute lifesaver, Gaz.”

  
“You worked all night?”

  
“I had some time. Never hurts, to get a little bit saved away before the school year proper kicks off and the exhaustion kicks in and I start having no free time and less energy.”  
 

“I wish I could help,” Gary says quietly as he parks the car and they start walking, “I wish you’d let me help. It would be so easy, J.”

 

“I’ll ask, okay? If I need help, I’ll ask you, Gary. But I don’t right now. I manage fine. I’ll keep managing fine, I know how to make my money go a long way.”

 

Gary doesn’t quite believe him, but it’s something at least.

 

They walk and Gary prattles on and on about Phil and Tracey and his parents and how training is starting in two weeks and he doesn’t quite think he’s ready for his vacation to be over yet.

 

Jamie listens in all the right spots, laughs and offers sympathy and doesn’t once tell Gary to get over himself because his life is a fucking cakewalk.

 

He lets them in and the elevator up is crowded. Jamie says hullo to his neighbors, seems to know them all. One of the girls tells him appreciatively that her cold’s cleared up, and a handsome young man tells him that the stretches really helped him with the pain in his glutes. Jamie waves off the thanks with a slight flush, and stands slightly in front of Gary, so they can’t get a good look at him.

 

Gary’s half curious and half jealous. It’s not even that this random guy is talking to Jamie about his ass, it’s just—they see him all the time. They get to ask him for advice, they have access to him whenever they need him. Gary doesn’t get any of that. Gary gets phone calls sometimes. Phone calls and the occasional “day off,” which he’s just now finding is code for a double overnight shift, and not much else. Just that and his own wet dreams. Because apparently he’s fourteen years old again.

 

Jamie doesn’t introduce him, and it’s smart, actually, to not bring attention to England’s right back in a crowded space with only one exit, but it still stings a little. Maybe he’d wanted to hold Jamie’s hand and meet his neighbors. Maybe he’d wanted to hear about their problems and laugh with them at the way Jamie flushed when he was praised.

  
He ignores the slight feeling of discontent in his chest and smiles at Jamie when they get to the fourth floor and the elevator empties out except for the pair of them.

  
“You must be tired,” Gary says, maybe a little too tender, a little too caring, “you can nap, if you want. I could go for a nap too, actually. All the driving’s tired me out, and I didn’t sleep much last night.” It’s half true—he’d been too excited to sleep properly, but he isn’t even the slightest bit tired—his body feels electric around Jamie, and he doesn’t know what he wants, but he definitely _wants_.

  
They get into Jamie’s flat, and it’s a little messier than the last time he was there, a few clothes on the floor instead of the hamper, the bathroom door carelessly open, closet door ajar. There are notes on the kitchen counter, as well as the couch and coffee table. Even on the nightstand.

  
Gary pushes the notes over to one side so they don’t get covered in grease stains and deposits the burgers and fries onto the counter.

  
“Rough week, love?”

  
Jamie smiles wearily at him. “It was, before I saw you.” He pulls Gary in close for another hug, and kisses him, warm and soft and Gary absolutely melts.

  
“Come on, J. You’re exhausted, I can tell. Lie down with me. I’ll draw the blinds, we can have a nice nap.

  
Jamie smiles again, a little blearily, and nods. He drops his backpack to the floor, toes off his shoes, and strips off his shirt and jeans before he falls into the bed, wearing nothing but boxers and socks.

  
“Come on, Gaz, come nap with me,” he says, already half-asleep—how tired had he been? He must’ve been absolutely dead on his feet to be asleep so fast. Gary tucks Jamie’s backpack under the kitchen counter so neither of them trip over it, and strips his own clothes off, climbing over Jamie to be between him and the wall.

  
“Here, let me” he says quietly, “you can’t sleep in these. Won’t be comfortable.” He gently pulls Jamie’s glasses off and puts them on the nightstand.

  
Jamie hums his gratitude and pulls him in closer, and Jamie’s so warm, it’s glorious and suddenly Gary could sleep, actually, given the circumstances, so he looks into Jamie’s eyes, drifting closed already, and presses a soft, chaste kiss to his mouth. He lays awake while Jamie sleeps, gentle fingers carding through Jamie’s soft sleep-mussed hair until he drifts off too.

  
Gary wakes up first. They’re spooning, his hips pressed flush against Jamie’s perfect ass, and his erection is both deeply embarrassing and completely unsurprising. His arm is wrapped around Jamie’s stomach. He pulls away slowly, until his back is pressed against the wall and Jamie’s lying on his back. Jamie’s still sleeping, and Gary lets himself just _look_ at him, at the muscles of his legs, at the scars that disappear under the loose fabric of his boxers. He’s just moving his gaze up to the dark hair across his chest and the way it looks across his pale chest when Jamie starts to stir. Gary quickly affects a yawn, rubbing at his eyes as if he’s only just woken up too.

 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Gary whispers, pressing a kiss to Jamie’s cheek and laying back down, draping an arm across his lover’s stomach.

 

“Morning, babe. Wha’ time is it? Can’t see the clock without me glasses.”

 

“It’s just past two in the afternoon.”

 

“Sorry you drove so far just for a nap,” Jamie mumbles, turning towards him. He throws a leg over Gary’s, and suddenly they’re close, lying on their sides facing each other, hips touching, and Gary’s blushing because he’s still hard.

 

“Not just a nap, Jamie. A nap with you.” Is he even allowed to be affectionate?

 

Jamie’s half-asleep and he smiles at him, leaning in for a languid kiss.

 

“Someone wants a bit of attention,” he says lightly, laughing a little as he reaches down to palm Gary’s cock through his boxers.

 

“It’s been awhile,” Gary says, blushing, “since the last time I was with you.”

 

“Yeah? What do you want, Gary? What can I do for you?” Jamie edges even nearer and kisses him, suddenly needier, more urgent. His hand slides over Gary’s back, sneaking under the waistband of his boxers as he squeezes a round cheek, the muscle firm under his hand.

 

“You’ve got such a great ass, Gaz. Not surprising, football and all that, but it’s fucking fantastic,” Jamie murmurs into his ear, teeth grazing against his earlobe before sinking to press hot kisses down his jaw.

 

“Can I suck you off?” Gary asks shyly. “I want to taste you, J.”

 

“It won’t be much fun with the condom, Gaz,” Jamie says gently, “last time you said you were good with either, didn’t you? Top or bottom? Maybe you could fuck me today. If you want to.”

 

Gary swallows, throat suddenly dry. “I’d—I’d love that. It’s been so long, I can’t tell you how much I’d like that—“

 

Jamie pulls away from him, then, sliding his boxers down his legs and tossing them onto the floor. “Don’t tell me. Show me, love.”

 

He leans over to the nightstand, slides his glasses onto his face casually—“so I can actually see you when you’re inside me”—and hands Gary a condom and hands him the lube.

 

“Do you want to open me up, or would you rather I do it?” Jamie asks him softly, still unsure about the extent of his experience.

 

“I want to,” Gary says, biting his lip, “but I might need—I might need you to talk me through it.”

 

Jamie nods and spreads his legs. “Okay, babe, put some lube on me, and then put some on your fingers. And then just—just slide a finger in. One first, and then both. And then… you know. Open me up. You don’t have to be that careful—I’m not fragile. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

 

Gary nods and chews on his lower lip, brows furrowing in concentration as he fingers Jamie slowly. He enjoys it, right from the go, based on the way his head falls back and he lets out a quiet gasp.

 

“You—you’re doing great, Gaz. Now I need another. Try to find my prostate, okay? You’ll—you’ll know when you’ve found it. I’ll let you know.”

 

He slides in the second finger and it’s—it’s curiously intimate, this. It’s broad daylight—the blinds don’t do much to hide that, and Jamie’s laying on his back, letting Gary just do this to him. It blows his mind, a little, that someone could trust him this much.

 

He searches for his prostate carefully, a little embarrassed as he remembers how quickly Jamie had found his.

 

“Bend your fingers a little— _there_! Gaz, that’s _perfect_ , it’s right _there_!” Jamie lets out a low whimper and moves his hips, trying to keep his fingers there. Gary’s just proud that he’s managed to find it at all.

 

“I’m—I’m ready, just put the condom on, okay? And use lube on your dick, I should’ve bought the condoms that come pre-lubed, but I wasn’t thinking—“

 

It doesn’t matter—Gary slicks himself up and carefully pushes in.

 

It’s _heaven_. Jamie’s body is heaven. There’s just no getting around it. “You’re—fucking hell, Jamie, you’re so tight!”

 

Jamie smiles at the praise, more with his eyes than his mouth, and pulls him down for a desperate kiss. “Please. Faster— _Gary_ —I’m _begging_ you.”

 

Gary kisses him again. He’d do anything Jamie asked, probably, to feel this again. It’s an absurd thought to have, but it’s _so much better_ than his own hand. Jamie’s the sort of man who could drive other men—and women, too, probably—absolutely mad, and completely unintentionally.

 

He moves his hips faster, watching in wonder as Jamie shifts under him, just slightly, so Gary’s thrusts hit him in the right spot. He listens, to the way Jamie sounds when it’s just right, as opposed to when it’s good, but not perfect, the way he goes from quiet gasps and little impatient whines to louder moans of Gary’s name.

 

“Gary—Gary, please, I’m so—so close—“ He cries out, arching his back and wrapping his legs around Gary’s back, which is hands down the sexiest thing Gary’s ever experienced in his life. Jamie’s mouth falls open in pleasure as he throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut.

 

Gary goes faster, reaching down to stroke him just as fast, and Jamie comes with a single, loud cry of Gary’s name, all over his own stomach. He tightens around Gary during his orgasm, the feeling exquisite, and Gary only manages one more thrust before he’s coming too.

 

Suddenly, he’s got no energy, and he collapses forward onto Jamie’s chest, ignoring the fact that Jamie’s semen is now smeared across him, too.

 

“Here,” Jamie says softly, “roll onto your back.” Gary pulls out and does so, and feels Jamie take off the condom before tossing it away in the bin by the bed. They’re laying side by side now. “You were incredible, Gary. I mean it. I can’t get enough of just _looking_ at you, let alone actually having you _inside_ me.”

 

“I’m—I’m kind of sleepy,” Gary murmurs.

 

“I know, babe. Me too. It’s prolactin. Hormone released during male orgasm. Makes us sleepy. Have to clean us up first, though, or the bed will get all messy.” Jamie sighs, groaning a little as he rises to his feet. “Should I clean you up here and you can have a nap, or do you wanna come shower with me? And then you can sleep, Gaz, I promise. Or we can eat. You must be starving, you. Can’t imagine how fast your metabolism must be. We’ve got the food you’ve brought, if you want me to pop it into the microwave.”

 

“Guess that depends,” Gary says cautiously, “are we done for today? Because if we are, we can go shower now. But if we’re not, we can just shower together later. No point in getting clean and then getting dirty all over again.”

 

“Later, then. Because you’re definitely at least getting a blowjob, Gary Neville.”

 

“Yeah?” Gary looks up, hopeful, “and can I return the favor?”

 

“If you really want to, Gaz.” Jamie pauses in the doorway of the bathroom, completely naked, thick dark framed glasses on his nose, and looks at Gary, as if taking a moment to just memorize the sight of him. And then he walks into the bathroom to find a washcloth. Gary can hear the faucet running, and when Jamie comes back, he wipes Gary’s stomach. It feels good—he’d used hot water, and it’s nice against Gary’s skin. He wipes himself off after, grimacing in distaste as he pushes the cloth into the scars on his stomach to properly clean himself off, and throws it at the hamper when he’s done, missing and letting out a frustrated little growl as goes to sit up.   


“Get it later,” Gary murmurs, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer.   


“Sleep or food, love?”

 

“Cuddle for a bit and then food?” Gary’s almost naively optimistic. The sex is good, they get on, they nap together. Maybe they can move past friends with benefits sooner than he’d thought.

 

Jamie laughs and nuzzles his nose against Gary’s neck, nipping playfully at the skin. “Bet David Beckham wouldn’t let you do _that_ to him. Not for awhile, at least. Men who think they’re straight always wanna top when they’re starting out with another lad. Even if he does use more hair product than you.”

 

“He doesn’t use hair product!” Gary lies.

 

Jamie laughs a little. “If you say so. You know we had a whole month on hair, skin, and nails, right? I mean, derm is _not_ my field, god knows, but I do know enough to know that that mop of his isn’t all natural. I’m sure he’s the one who grew it, but hair tends to move when it’s attached to a footballer. Unless there’s something holding it in place.”

 

Gary snorts, but doesn’t say anything, just presses his hand to Jamie’s bare back.

 

“How do you get by on such little sleep?” he asks softly, wondering if Jamie can feel the heat of his touch.

 

“Dunno. Never needed that much. And working myself tired helps. It lets me fall asleep easier, without pills or sex. Masturbating isn’t the same. Nobody knows why. Orgasms from actual sex make you sleepier than wanking. More of that sleepy hormone I told you about. Prolactin. Can’t really trick your body, I guess.”

 

“Is our pillowtalk always going to be about medicine?” Gary teases, kissing Jamie’s hair just because he can.

 

“Sorry,” Jamie’s flushing a little, hiding his face in Gary’s neck, “I’m not used to this yet. To having someone in bed with me.”

 

“Me neither,” Gary says quietly, nudging Jamie away from him so he can look him in the eyes and lean down to kiss him languidly. “But I like what I’ve seen so far. Maybe you could come over to mine sometime? If you ever have a couple of days off, I can come pick you up and we can go to mine, watch telly, I’ll drive you round in my car, we can have a kickabout, maybe. I have a double bed, so I won’t be all over you if you don’t want me to be.”

 

“I don’t mind you being all over me,” Jamie mutters, ears still looking rather pink.

 

Gary smiles at him. “Maybe we could go out. Friends go see films, don’t they? I’ll buy the tickets, you can buy the popcorn?” His heart is beating a little fast, the way it always does when he makes an overture, tries to pull Jamie closer. It’s like trying to coax affection from a cat. He’s so happy with what he has, he’s constantly afraid that he’ll lose it if he asks for more.

 

“I’d probably just fall asleep during it. Don’t do well in dark rooms anymore, me body just shuts down. But maybe next time we could go out for lunch?” Jamie’s voice is wistful, a little dreamy, almost. It gets lower, a little disappointed as he continues. “But you won’t have time, Gaz. Not when the season starts up. Between traveling and training and matches and international duty, and my schedule… we’ll never have time for each other.”

 

“I’ll make time for you, J. Will you make time for me?” Gary’s heart is fit to burst in his chest, and he brushes careful fingers through Jamie’s hair

 

“I’d try,” Jamie says, sounding utterly defeated, “I’d try, but sooner or later I’d slip. I’m in an accelerated program. Cuts me down to four years of uni to graduate instead of six. It comes with a bit of money, too, but I’ve got to keep me grades up. Not enough to live off of, but enough that I can manage, if I work on the side and don’t spend too much.”

 

“The rent on this place can’t be so steep that you have to work yourself to death for it, especially if this program of yours comes with some money,” Gary says, confused.

 

Jamie’s quiet for a moment. “It’s not just rent. It’s rent, utilities, textbooks, tuition, transport, groceries, the phone bill. Boxing club student membership. Me one vice, fighting is. Helps me sleep. It adds up, Gaz. And me dad’s gone. If I can make a bit of extra money, I send it home. Mum can buy the boys new bookbags, a football kit and boots, though Mickey’s generous about those things, makes sure they have nice new kits and the newest boots. But kids always want things. That’s just how it is. And they’re not Mickey’s brothers. They’re mine. Mum manages, gets them everything they need. But if they want something extra, it comes from what I send home. They shouldn’t have to worry about things like that. That’s mine and Mum’s job.”

 

Gary’s stunned silent. He leans his forehead against Jamie’s. “Taking care of your brothers isn’t your job, J. You were just a kid yourself. You still are.”

 

“Course it is. I’m the man of the house. Paper routes, checkout boy, babysitting, I did it all growing up to help with their bits and bobs. You know how it is, Gaz. Big brothers have to protect the little ones, make sure they’re taken care of.”

 

“How are you _single_?”

 

“ _Am_ I single? You ditchin’ me, Neville?”

 

“No! _Fuck_ no, J. Just, I’ll never understand how you don’t have a line of guys in front of your flat, a man as perfect as you.”

 

“Just because I’m poor?” There’s no heat in his voice. “Gary, there’s no, I dunno, brownie points, or whatever. I’m not a saint. It’s not out of the goodness of my heart. We just do what we have to do. You’d do the same if it was your family. Don’t have anything else, do we? Just the family we’re lucky enough to have, and the family we build for ourselves as we go through life.”

 

“You’re incredible, James,” Gary says seriously, “and we’ll just have to agree to disagree on the goodness of your heart.”

 

“It’s just about being decent. The baby was only two when he left, I knew they were mine after that. My responsibility. My privilege,” Jamie mumbles sleepily. He brushes a kiss against Gary’s mouth and tucks his head against Gary’s neck, and then his eyes drift shut and he’s asleep.

 

Gary might actually _cry_. He’s sleeping with an _angel_.

 

This friends with benefits thing? Yeah, it’s definitely not going to work out.

 

That doesn’t mean Gary’s going to abandon it. It just means he’s going to get Jamie Carragher to fall in love with him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! Please drop me a line to say whether you're enjoying it! This is also probably going to take a while to finish, just because of the scale of the story itself, but I'm still excited to see where it leads!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of, and the morning after. 
> 
> Lazy sex, a good night's sleep, a decent breakfast, and a first for both of them.

Gary holds him carefully, and wonders how many people have been careful with Jamie before. He deserves that. He deserves someone who takes care of him, even if he is damn hard to take care of.

 

Gary drifts off too, at some point. The sex had been good. Prolactin, Jamie had said. Whatever it was, Gary loved the freedom of being able to nap all day. He wakes up to his stomach grumbling. _Shit_. Jamie’s still asleep, though he won’t be for much longer, if Gary’s stomach continues to insist on attention like this. Jamie’d been right about his metabolism—he was used to his meals, three a day with snacks in between, and his body complained when it didn’t get fed.

 

Gary flexes his abs hard, trying to silence his stomach. He pushes on his stomach with his hand, trying to appease it somehow. It was way too early in their relationship to be digging through Jamie’s cabinets looking for something to eat, and if he ate his burger while Jamie was asleep, Jamie would have to eat alone when he woke up, and that wasn’t what Gary wanted. Not at all.

 

Jamie stirs, huffing out a little laugh against his neck. His hand drifts down to Gary’s stomach. “You need food,” he mutters.

 

“I know. Wanted to wait for you to wake up, though,” Gary whispers.

 

“Microwave the food you brought, okay? Plates are in the cabinet next to the fridge.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“Warm mine up too, and just bring the plates here, we’ll eat in bed, if that’s okay. Mugs are there too, there’s tap water, I have milk, a bit of soda, and a couple beers in the fridge, just grab whatever you want, babe.”

 

“And what if I like where I am right now?” Gary teases.

 

“Then stay. I like you. You’re warm and comfy,” Jamie murmurs, leaning up to kiss him.

 

“You were starving when I got here,” Gary remembers suddenly, “you haven’t eaten since six last night, right? That’s what you said? It’s almost five now. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since you had a decent meal?”

 

“Had coffee,” Jamie protests weakly.

 

“That’s not the same, James.”

 

“Don’t make a fuss, baby, please? Just heat up our dinner and I’ll wake up and eat with you. Dinner in bed. It’s the night shift’s version of breakfast in bed, you know.”

 

He’d had Gary at _baby_.

 

Gary kisses him again, and Jamie is suddenly much more awake, kissing him back more urgently.

 

“Nope. Not until you eat something,” Gary says sternly.

 

“Sex on a full stomach?” Jamie whines, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Gary’s neck. It’s a near-Herculean task, but Gary ignores the fluttering in his stomach.

 

“You’ve got to eat, J. Need to feed that brain of yours, love.” Gary’s not going to budge—he can feel the famous Neville stubbornness kicking in. Jamie doesn’t stand a chance.

 

“Okay, okay!” Jamie laughs and sits up, pulling his glasses back on and sitting up. “Go heat up the food, then, Gaz.”

 

Gary kisses him on the cheek. “Good man.”

 

He microwaves the burgers and they eat them together, sitting side by side on the bed, leaning against the wall with their legs out.

 

“So what’s it actually like, being a professional footballer?”

 

“Do you not already know? Mickey hasn’t already told you?”

 

“He’s told me bits and pieces. But I dunno, can’t be the same at United, I guess. And it’s different for you. You’re older. You’ll be less naïve than Mickey, less starry-eyed.”

 

“It’s brilliant, I’m very grateful for the opportunities I was given,” Gary says automatically, the media training taking over.

 

Jamie waits patiently.

 

“It _is_ good, J. I love football. It’s my life. It’s always been my life. And the money’s good. As far as jobs go, it is pretty easy—I mean, we put the work in, on the pitch and in the gym, we train hard, but it’s just football. It’s everything I’d ever wanted. We have a fantastic manager, we’re winning trophies… Manchester United, mate, feels like we’re at the top of the world…”

 

“But?” Jamie prompts quietly, nudging Gary’s shoulder with his own.

 

“Everyone wants to see you fail,” Gary says softly, “Scousers, City fans, Gunners, Chelsea, West Ham, they all want to watch us crash and burn. Even when you’re training, there are a handful of lads competing for your spot, hoping you choke or have a bad day. Nobody wants their teammate to get injured, but still… Injury is opportunity. That’s why people make friends with people in different positions. First teamers hang out amongst themselves, squad players stay in their place. When you’re breaking through, some of the older players are brilliant, they’ll help you through it. Others… make a joke out of making things harder for the young boys. Just for a laugh. Someone made it hard for them, so they make it hard for the next ones.”

 

“Incey’s like that,” Jamie says quietly, “bullies the kids. Redknapp’s taken Mickey under his wing, helps him as much as he can… But he can’t be around all the time. And Incey’s an asshole. But at least you’ve made it, Gaz. At least you’re there now, starting right-back for the second-best football team in the world—“

 

“Second best?”

 

“Sorry, mate. Used to be an Evertonian, but I’ve been a Red ever since Mickey got his first professional contract. Can’t root against your best mate.”

 

“Not even for the guy you’re sleeping with?”

 

“The sex is good, Gaz, better than good, even, but a couple orgasms don’t outweigh years and years of friendship. But there’s at least one Scouser that doesn’t want to see you fail, Gary Neville. So take from that what you will.”

 

It’s not quite what Gary wants. But it’s something.

 

Jamie washes the dishes and puts them on a drying rack.

 

“Do you want a beer?” Jamie asks, unsure of what else to say.

 

“I’m alright, mate, thanks.”

 

Silence hangs in the air, and Gary moves slowly as he stands and walks towards him.

 

Jamie stays perfectly still, watching him with cautious eyes.

 

Gary’s standing in front of him, then, and he takes another step forward, until they’re even closer, and places his hands on Jamie’s cheeks, just slightly rough—he hadn’t shaved today, and he leans in, shifts his weight forward onto his toes, and presses his mouth against Jamie’s.

 

Jamie melts into him, and Gary probably won’t ever admit it, but as they stand in Jamie’s kitchen and make out like two kids in love, Gary thinks he might understand why his teammates are all settling down. Win, lose, or draw, he doesn’t think he’d care as much if he had this to come home to.

 

“Gary?” Jamie sounds young, all of a sudden. “I—I thought we were just supposed to be friends with benefits.”

 

“This is how friends with benefits kiss,” Gary lies, and Jamie chuckles, more nervously than Gary would like, but he when he kisses him again, Jamie’s hands are warm on the skin of his lower back.

 

“What do you want?” Jamie asks, looking eager to please, “what do you want from me? Anything, Gary. I’m yours tonight.”

 

Gary kisses him again, and holds him close, taking a few steps backwards. Jamie follows, perfectly in sync. They take another few steps and Gary pushes Jamie’s boxers down his legs. Jamie kicks them off, not breaking the kiss for even a second. Gary yanks his own boxers down half a second later, just as they get to the bed. Jamie pulls away and looks at Gary, searching his eyes for something. Maybe he finds it, or maybe he doesn’t, but he lays himself down, slow, deliberate, and spreads his legs, not breaking eye contact.

 

“Is this okay?” He’s looking up at Gary, trying to see if he’s guessed right or not. Gary nods fervently, laying himself over Jamie, pressing his mouth to him, suddenly desperate to kiss him, to just keep kissing Jamie for an eternity. Jamie’s got one hand on his neck, holding him close, and the other arm’s reaching out, digging blindly in the nightstand. Gary’s hand meets his, takes the lube and the condom from his fingers.

 

“Should—should be easier, this time, since you just fucked me a few hours ago,” Jamie mumbles, still letting out a gasp when Gary slides a finger in. He bends it slightly and Jamie’s grip on him tightens instantly—he’s a quick learner, if nothing else. “ _Yes_ , Gary, you’re _perfect_ —“ He slides in another finger in short order and works him open quickly, desperate to feel him again.

 

Gary kisses him to swallow his moans, and feels Jamie’s grip, tight on his shoulders. He fucks him slowly, and he isn’t quite sure why, other than some instinct that it feels right. It’s the same instinct that lets him know where Scholesy and Becks and Giggsy are on the pitch, even without looking at them, and he’s long ago learned to trust it, so he does.

 

Jamie’s more vocal this time, there are fewer whispers and more loud cries, sometimes of Gary’s name, but more often wordless expressions of how incredible it feels. He reaches between them to touch himself, but Gary pulls his hand away, tucking it under his head.

 

“Other one too.” Gary’s voice is quiet and calm, and there’s no command in it, but Jamie listens.

 

“Can I hold you? Please, baby, I need to touch you, please, love—“

 

“Of course, Carra,” Gary says tenderly, and he reaches between them to touch Jamie instead, enjoying the uptick in Jamie’s moans and the way he kisses him, desperate to quiet himself down. Jamie’s hands wander, frantic, from his hair to his cheeks to his neck and back to his hair, until Gary wonders how messed up his hair looks.

 

Gary feels himself getting closer and starts thrusting faster, because he wants Jamie to finish first. He jerks him harder, fucking him in time and kissing him hard, until Jamie’s nails tighten on his back, digging in almost hard enough to draw blood, and he pulls away from Gary’s mouth to let out a hoarse cry, back arching as he climaxes. Gary fucks him through his orgasm and comes himself just a few thrusts later.

 

He pulls out and lays next to him. Jamie doesn’t say anything, but he draws Gary’s arm under his head and moves so he’s resting on Gary’s shoulder rather than the pillow. He’s half-asleep again, and doesn’t seem inclined to clean up this time, seemingly resigned to messy sheets and scraping dried semen off his stomach in the morning. Gary looks at him, at his gorgeous Scouse lad, and musters up the energy to strip off the condom and dispose of it. He pulls his arm out from under Jamie—Jamie actually _whines_ at the loss of his pillow, which is ridiculously sweet.

 

He gets up and goes into the bathroom, fumbling to find the light switch. He digs through the drawers until he finds a spare hand towel, bigger than the wash cloth, but it’s all he can find. He runs it under hot water and squeezes out the excess before leaving and cleaning Jamie up as best as he can. He flips off the main lights for the apartment, leaving just the bathroom and the dim orange streetlight filtering in from the slits between the blinds. He returns to the bathroom, wipes himself off, and decides to spend the night, as if that choice hadn’t been made the second he’d gotten into Jamie’s apartment and been kissed like a lover for the first time in ages.

 

He tosses the towel into the hamper, bending to pick up the washcloth from earlier, still on the floor from when Jamie’d missed.

 

He flicks off the lights, leaving the apartment almost completely dark except for orange lines of light falling over the space. Gary climbs back into bed and pulls Jamie back in, so he’s resting against his shoulder again. Jamie turns into him and smiles against his bare skin.

 

Gary wakes up with one of his arms completely numb. Jamie’s still sleeping, probably exhausted from yesterday.

 

He watches him, the light filtering through the blinds and illuminating his lover’s face, younger and more carefree in sleep.

 

He kisses Jamie’s forehead and closes his eyes again. He lays there awhile, willing himself back to sleep, but to no avail. Instead, he eases Jamie off his arm, managing to extricate himself and climb over him to get out of bed. He goes to the bathroom and relieves himself. He looks at his hair in the mirror as he washes his hands. It’s messy, going in a hundred different directions, courtesy of a combination of sleep and Jamie’s handiwork from the previous night. Sex hair suits him, actually. He grins at his reflection.

 

He winces and tries to work past the pins and needles as he finds his boxers and pulls them back on, going over to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Jamie’s got a calendar on the fridge, and Gary checks his schedule so he can wake him. It wouldn’t exactly help Jamie fall in love with him if he was late the morning after their first day together. He’s got class starting at ten, and it’s only a quarter past eight, but he doesn’t know how long Jamie takes to get ready in the morning, or how far he has to go to get to class. Gary can cook him breakfast, so he can sleep in awhile, and if he’s getting late, he can just drive him and drop him off. One ride between friends wouldn’t hurt, surely?

 

He starts the toast and rummages through Jamie's cupboards to find a small bottle of cooking oil and a frying pan, scorched on the bottom in a way that suggested that Jamie’d taught himself how to cook, and it hadn’t always been smooth sailing. He decides to start with his own breakfast, just in case he messes up, and then move on to Jamie's. What had he said he liked again? Scrambled, it was. With mushrooms and something else. Try as hard as he can, he can't quite remember what the other thing is, really.

 

Maybe he should make himself scrambled eggs too, to get some practice in. He likes sunny side up, but just marginally more than any other type of eggs, and one day of scrambled eggs won't be an issue if it helps him get Jamie's breakfast right. Mushrooms, he thinks to himself. _Do you have to do the mushrooms separately or just put them in with the eggs and let them cook there?_  
  
He decides to pour it all in at once and see how it goes. He chops up the mushrooms and starts them frying in the pan while he beats the eggs quickly with a fork and adds a splash of milk. He's just about to pour in the egg and milk mixture when he feels a pair of arms wrapping around him. It’s a shock, his heart squeezes in his chest all of a sudden, and only his reflexes keep the eggs from going onto the floor. "Give them a few minutes to cook before you add the eggs, babe."  
  
There are lips against the side of his neck, then, pressing a line of tender kisses from just under the corner of his jaw to where his neck meets his shoulder. "Morning, gorgeous," Jamie mumbles, still sounding sleepy, "you making us breakfast?"  
  
"Didn't want to wake you," Gary says softly, turning his head so he can kiss Jamie good morning. "You just about scared the shit outta me, J. Nearly dropped the eggs all over the floor."  
  
"Sorry, babe. Just wasn't sure if you've cooked with mushrooms before. They're kind of tricky. Need to be cooked on their own before you add the eggs. Same with pizza. It's because they're fungi, not plants, shouldn't eat them raw. Still, I should've said something, I s'pose. Thought it'd be more romantic this way, though. And you were so focused you didn't hear me coming."  
  
"Wanted to do your breakfast before you went off to class and I went home," Gary pouts.  
  
"And you've done brilliantly. Add some salt and pepper to the eggs, love, mix that in before you pour them into the pan."  
  
"I don't make scrambled eggs very much," Gary confesses, flushing as he adds some salt and pepper and mixes them in. He pours the mixture in and goes to move them about when he realizes he doesn't have anything to--  
  
Jamie unwraps an arm from around him and pulls open a drawer, placing a slotted spatula right into Gary's hand.  
  
"Thanks," Gary mutters, slightly embarrassed. But then Jamie lays his head on his shoulder and he feels slightly better.  
  
"I like this," he says quietly, reaching up to turn on the exhaust over the stove. "Whole flat smells of egg unless the fan's on." He says matter of factly. "But I like you cooking me breakfast in your boxers. It's... domestic. Almost like we live in this shoebox together."  
  
"If we did, would you let me pay half the rent and utilities?"  
  
"Why? There'd be no need, I've got them covered. Though you probably do go through a lot of food... You'd go out and do the groceries, pay for them—"  
  
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were calling me fat, James Carragher," Gary teases, savoring the feeling of Jamie behind him, warm and solid.  
  
"Oh, I would _never_ , Gaz. Not a good idea to piss off the man who's cooking your food, you know. You never know, next time you’d spit in me eggs."  
  
"It's getting likelier every passing second." Gary says snarkily.  
  
"Baby, you know you're not fat. Not by _any_ means. I love your body. And you're a professional athlete. I could stare at you naked all day. You're--you're enough to make a man into an artist, just to capture a shadow of your… your beauty, I guess. Or handsomeness, if you like that better."  
  
"You sound more like a poet than a doctor," Gary says smartly, cherishing every word and enjoying the warm flutter in his stomach. He carefully puts the finished eggs onto a plate along with two toasts.  
  
"I like poetry. It's sort of sappy, I guess, but I always wondered what it was like, to love someone that much, to love someone so much that the entire world is the more beautiful for it. Silly, I know."  
  
It's not silly at all. It's... sweet. And Gary's heart is warm and he's flushing, a little bit.  
  
"It'—it's not silly," he says finally.  
  
"What about your breakfast?" Jamie asks, setting the plate on the counter and pulling him in for a proper kiss.  
  
"I'm gonna make mine. Sunny side up for me."  
  
"I used to love ordering my eggs sunny side up. I think mostly because I liked saying it. It was like saying _hey, look on the bright side_ through food. But then I realized I thought scrambled were actually better, they just had a less interesting name."  
  
Gary pauses and realizes with a pang that he pretty much only likes his eggs sunny side up for the name.  
  
"Maybe I'll make mine scrambled too, then. Since I've got you bringing sunshine to my morning, J." Jamie blushes and goes to check on the coffee, asking how Gary takes it—splash of milk, three sugars.  
  
There isn't much room in the kitchen, and they're sort of all over each other as Gary finishes his eggs and leaves the tight space to clear the notes off the sofa and the table. They settle down, sitting close, to eat their breakfast.  
  
He watches nervously as Jamie tastes his eggs. "Perfect," he declares, pressing a kiss to Gary's cheek, "thank you, baby."  
  
Gary's flushing at this point, pleased beyond words at how well his little idea had turned out.  
  
"So what are your plans for today?" He asks, watching Jamie finish his food and take a sip of coffee.  
  
"Get a shower with my footballer, get ready, kiss him goodbye, and go to class. I'll probably leave the dishes, get them when I get back from class today."  
  
"I'm guessing you'll have studying to do tonight when you get back?"  
  
Jamie looks at him regretfully. "Yeah, babe, unfortunately. And you should probably go back to Manchester at some point. I'm not kicking you out, love, I just don't know what you'd do if you stayed here, other than distract me with your ridiculously sexy body."  
  
Gary smiles a little and leans in to kiss him. "I liked our day together."  
  
"I'm sorry it was mostly napping, Gaz. Can't have been that much fun for you."  
  
"Prolactin," Gary says mock-seriously, "we slept a lot because we got off a lot. And I loved every second of it."  
  
Jamie blushes, "my pillowtalk probably won't get any better than that, to be fair, babe."  
  
"We'll have to work on it, then." Gary smirks and kisses him chastely, pulling away to have some more food.  
  
They finish up and Jamie stacks the dishes in the sink, turning to look at Gary.  
  
"Come shower with me? I'll make it worth your while..." He crosses the room to his nightstand and pulls out a condom, waving the shiny packet in the air. "Ever had shower sex before, Gary? I-I haven't had the pleasure yet, but you deserve a reward for making us breakfast, love. Besides, we aren't going to see each other for awhile once the season kicks off, so I want to give you lots of memories to think about when you're touching yourself."  
  
Gary nods eagerly, going over to kiss him senseless. Jamie smiles into the kiss and leads them to the bathroom so he can turn on the shower. Gary's naked and hard by the time the water's hot.  
  
Jamie's glasses fog up and he frowns a little bit. "When I fantasized about shower sex, I didn't consider that everything would be vaguely blurry." He takes off his glasses and sets them on the sink, pushing his boxers to the floor and following Gary into the shower.  
  
"Will you fuck me this time?" Gary asks shyly, "I miss the feeling of having you inside me."  
  
Jamie looks him up and down, squinting a little, and pushes Gary against the tile wall. "Of course I'll fuck you, babe." He kisses him hotly and when Gary puts his hands on Jamie's back, it's warm and slick with hot water. "I--I don't know how, exactly, but we'll figure it out-"  
  
Gary's never had sex standing up before, and Jamie hasn't either. That makes this their first, a first they get to share together, and that makes him unspeakably happy, somehow. He lifts a leg and wraps it around Jamie's hips.  
  
"Now you open me up," he suggests.  
  
"Yeah, good idea-" Jamie's got a hand under Gary's knee to help take support his leg, and he's careful as he slicks two fingers and presses them into him. "Is this okay?"  
  
"Feels different, standing up," Gary says quietly, arching into the touch and doing his absolute utmost to fuck himself on Jamie's fingers.  
  
"So eager, Gary," Jamie says, sounding pleased. He kisses Gary's throat as he finishes opening him up and pulls his fingers out, eliciting a gorgeous whine from Gary.  
  
"N-need you, Jamie--" Jamie cuts him off by kissing him, releasing his hold on Gary to slick himself up quickly.  
  
"Are you ready, Gaz?" Gary nods eagerly. As Jamie pushes up into him, he finds himself on his toes, being pushed up on each thrust.  
  
"Can—can I put my other leg round you?" He asks desperately.  
  
"I don't know if I'm strong enough," Jamie murmurs, but he's lifting Gary's leg anyway. "Don't want to drop you," he says, biting at his lower lip and sounding worried, "I'll tell you if I can't hold you anymore, okay?"  
  
Gary nods. Honestly, he's willing to take the risk of being dropped on his ass in the shower if it means he gets to feel Jamie inside him like this, even deeper than before. He moans, and the sound echoes loudly around the bathroom.  
  
"So fucking hot, Gary," Jamie mutters, thrusting into him again, slowly finding his rhythm. He's strong, his hands under Gary's thighs holding him up, and his chest pressing Gary into the tiled wall.

 

Gary wraps his arms around Jamie’s shoulders, clinging to him as Jamie thrusts into him, going fast enough that Gary’s nearly there, but not quite pounding into him.

 

“Babe,” Jamie whispers, biting a kiss into his neck, “ _I’ve got you_. Use one hand to touch yourself.” Gary’s so elated at just the first sentence, at the intensity with which Jamie says the words, he misses the second part entirely, until Jamie repeats himself. “Touch yourself for me, Gaz, please, I can’t hold off much longer and I want you to come.”

 

Gary jerks himself quickly, in rhythm with how Jamie’s fucking him. “Please, baby, I need—harder,” he begs, inching ever nearer.

 

Jamie obliges and thrusts into him even harder and it’s perfect, sending Gary over the edge. He comes with a shout of Jamie’s name.

 

Jamie comes too, and they spend too long in the shower after that, kissing. Gary’s hesitant, but he reaches for the shampoo first, lathering it into his own hair and then Jamie’s, fingers gentle as he washes it out, careful not to let any go into Jamie’s eyes. Jamie watches him do it, watches his form, close enough that he can mostly see him, barely has to squint at all. His throat tightens, all of a sudden, and he kisses him.

 

“Thank you for coming over, Gary. It was brilliant, having you round.” He’d made Jamie’s little flat feel homier, filling it with warmth and life.

 

It’s doomed, of course. Jamie just isn’t sure if he cares. He picks up the soap and rubs it across Gary’s chest, and his arms, and his stomach. He kneels, too, to clean his legs, turns him to clean his back and his ass, and it’s Gary’s turn to watch him, this time.

 

They don’t leave the shower until the water starts to run cold, fingers long since wrinkled, and then they laugh, falling over each other in their rush to get out.

 

Jamie gets dressed, hair still damp, and so does Gary.

 

“I can’t walk you back to your car today, love, I’ve got to catch me bus, but you’ll be okay, won’t you? It’s just a couple streets over.”

 

Gary nods. “I’ll be fine, J. Thanks for making time to see me.”

 

Jamie snorts, “wasn’t hard making time to nap and shag and eat. Next time, take me out to lunch, okay? Call, write, I’ll see you when I see you, Gaz, okay?”

 

“Soon, hopefully.”

 

Jamie kisses him goodbye, long and slow, and they walk out of the building together and go in opposite directions. Gary wants to seize him by the arm and take him to Manchester, have him finish his degree there. Gary wants to drag him into his house and tell him he refuses to charge him rent, so he could calm down on the working himself to death thing.

 

Gary _wants_.

 

He just wants.

 

The drive home is dull, and home is big and empty and quiet. The bed is cold and too big for one.

 

He calls Jamie and leaves a message when he doesn’t pick up.

 

_I miss your voice. When can I see you again?_

_Oh. Uh, it’s me. Gary. Call me when you can, J._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drop me a line letting me know how you feel as always!
> 
> also come talk to me on tumblr if you want! (@thesecretdetectivecollection)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gary fucks up

The days pass by. Jamie doesn’t get any more days off in the next two weeks. Or rather, he works on the days he doesn’t have class. Gary moves the phone to his bedroom after the third day in a row Jamie calls him at seven in the morning.  
  


Sometimes he’s near-delirious, fresh off a night shift, sometimes a double night shift, talking faster than usual as he settles into bed and crashes. Sometimes Gary thinks he falls asleep talking to him, when he goes quiet for long, long minutes before mumbling a goodnight and hanging up.  
  


Sometimes he’s sleepy, too, voice soft with sleep, words slow and spaced out by yawns that Gary wishes he could see. “Morning, love. Just wanted to check in before I get ready to go to clinic.”  
  


Gary dreams of Jamie wearing his kit and watching a final at the end of the season—maybe the Champions League, dreams of hanging his medal around Jamie’s neck and kissing him at Old Trafford, in the tunnel or even out on the pitch, when he’s feeling audacious. He dreams of the night—ducking out of the celebration party early so he can take his lover home, the image of Jamie in nothing but his winner’s medal as he made love to him…  
  
  
They call each other a lot, enough for Gary to wonder if he's driving up Jamie's phone bill. They talk nearly every day, though half the time, they miss each other and leave silly little messages.

 

Jamie is more careful, in his messages, though he knows Gary lives alone, ever since Phil had moved out to live with his girlfriend. He just doesn’t want to take the risk. Gary would make headlines, if they weren’t careful, and so Jamie always is.  
  


_Hi, Gary, it’s Jamie, just wanted to have a bit of a chat, mate, catch up. Call me back when you have time._  
  


Gary isn’t careful. Or he is, maybe, about being too affectionate, about scaring Jamie away, but not much else.  
  


_Hey, J, I miss your voice. And the rest of you. When can I see you again?_

 

  
Jamie always asks about his matches. He knows the results, of course, reads them in the paper on the bus to the hospital, for clinicals or work, and calls to congratulate Gary on a win.  
  


It takes a few months for them to figure out what to do after a loss, mostly because there just aren't very many of them. But they do figure it out, eventually. Jamie tells stories about his childhood, skates over the parts about money being tight and doesn’t talk about his dad and tells funny little stories about his kid brothers instead, about playing football with his mates in the street—Gary knows Michael Owen was one of those mates, but Jamie doesn’t talk much about Michael to him, just as Gary doesn’t talk to him about David.   
  


He even drives up to see Jamie a few more times, between summer and Christmas, on the rare occasion that he’s injured or has a day off, or a week with no matches scheduled.  
  


He grows bolder. Jamie’s voice, crackling with static over the line, makes his day. He almost _has_ to hear it, just to feel at ease. He goes through his day collecting nuggets of information for Jamie, stories about Scholesy nutmegging him or Giggsy’s new girlfriend being a bit rude to him because he isn’t one of the pretty ones on the team. He talks about his family, too, about Phil and Tracey and his parents.

  
Even when he’s away with the team, or with England, he manages to find time to call, Jamie's number imprinted into his head and into his hands. He’s only got a handful of phone numbers memorized, really. Phil, Tracey, his parents’ house, Scholesy, David… and his Jamie. He talks to Jamie more than any of them, except for the time he spends with Scholesy and David at training. Sometimes he gets a single room for away matches, and then it’s easy, to sit and talk to Jamie for twenty minutes, even half an hour, to lounge in bed and tell him everything about his day and listen to Jamie talk about his. Jamie censors his stories, though. He sees grittier, uglier things, things that Gary can’t even imagine. Sometimes he doesn’t talk about his day at all, just says that he’s glad Gary wasn’t there for any of it.  
  


If Gary isn’t in a single room, he still manages to find time, somehow. If he's with Scholesy, he waits until Paul gets in the shower. Five minutes is enough to leave a message, and if he manages to catch Jamie and actually talk to him, he explains the situation quickly and they say hello and check in and not much else. He always says goodbye when Paul comes out in a towel, getting dressed. He earns a few suspicious looks, the way he clings to the phone, unwilling to hang up, the tenderness in his voice when he says his goodbyes. “Bye, love. I’ll call you again soon. Good luck in school.”  
  


Rooming with David is safer and more dangerous at the same time. David knows about girlfriends, and he's normal enough, unlike Paul, to let Gary talk to his girl without bothering him. He doesn’t know that the person Gary calls love and babe over the phone is a man, and he’s known to tease him for it occasionally, telling the lads how “Gary’s completely head over boots for this girl, boys, honestly—they talk _every day!_ ” But it’s _David_ , and Jamie asks about him a lot.  
  


“How was David in training today?”  
  


“He was good.”  
  


“How did he look?”  
  


“Same as usual, I guess. I wasn’t paying attention, really.”  
  


Jamie laughs, deep and rich. “You always pay attention to Becks, love. That’s okay. Have you told him you love him yet?”  
  


“Not yet.”  
  


“You should tell him. Maybe he feels the same, Gaz, and you two could be so happy together. You deserve to be happy.”  
  


“You make me happy, baby.”  
  


Jamie goes quiet after that, for awhile.  
  


“Babe?”  
  


“You should tell him, Gary. Promise me you will, someday?”  
  


“I promise.”  
  


There’s not much to say after that, though, and soon Jamie brings up an exam he has coming up that he has to study for. Gary takes the hint and says his goodbyes.  
  


David and Paul tell him to bring her to some of the team parties some time. Gary just shrugs.  
  


“She lives a couple hours away, and she’s busy studying and working and all that.”  
  


“Well, tell her to take a day off and come hang out with us,” Paul says lightly.  
  


Paul means well, Gary reminds himself. Paul doesn’t know that the chronic overworking is a bit of a sore spot between Gary and Jamie, the way Gary worries about him. When Gary has so much money, it’s frustrating beyond measure that Jamie won’t just _let him help_.  
  


He smiles tightly at his best mates. “She’s a bit of a workaholic, lads, sorry. Barely get to see her myself, not gonna spend our time together at a party with you tossers.”  
  


They laugh at the implication. “Is that why he’s been in such a good mood, then? Getting laid? It’s about time, Gaz, honestly, that dry spell was lasting so long, I was getting worried—“  
  


“Well, don’t. I’m doing just fine. She and I are doing great.” Gary’s voice is curt enough that the boys get the hint and the conversation turns to something else.

 

David leaves a warm hand on his shoulder, though. “I’m happy for you, Gaz. I can tell you really like her. She’s a lucky girl.”

  
Gary smiles at him and thinks about Jamie, thinks about the way he talks about David, thinks about the fact that he introduced himself to Jamie as David, the fact that he’d called out David’s name the first time they’d been together.

  
He flushes, embarrassed at the fact that his crush on David is still infuriatingly strong, even if Jamie is his—his _someone_. Boyfriend is wrong, partner is far too strong for a few phone calls and a few days of sex, and crush feels too small for someone who likes him back. 

  
Dates are rare. Jamie's right—they just don't have the time. Not when they live an hour and a half apart by drive and two hours by train.  
  


So dates are rare.  
  


Phone calls, on the other hand, are not.  
  


They call each other a lot, and that's where Gary properly falls for him.  
  


He learns the sound of Jamie's voice, happy and sad and stressed and tired and sleepy-slow and sleep-deprived.  
  


He learns how it crackles when he's just woken up, how it sounds when he yawns across the line.  
  


They grow into it. Eventually, Gary's talking to him one night and Jamie's en route to a goodnight Gary isn't ready for. He confesses he's been having trouble sleeping.  
  


"You're in bed right now, right?" Jamie asks patiently.

 

“Yeah. Can’t sleep though.”  
  


“Do you remember our day together?”  
  


“Course I do.”  
  


“Think about it, Gaz. But this time, think about me in the shower, on my knees. My lips, open wide for you. But you’ve gotta be gentle, okay? It’s been awhile since I’ve done this.”  
  


“Right,” Gary says, nearly choking on the word, “I’ll be gentle, Jamie, I promise.”  
  


“You can start touching yourself when you get hard, okay? Or even before, if you want to. Close your eyes and really imagine it.”  
  


“I’m gonna start with my hand, okay? Stroke yourself and tell me how I do it, how I touch you just right.”

 

“Just, you just do it.”  
  


“How fast, babe? Do you like a little twist of the wrist at the end there? That’ll be fun when I do it with my tongue, won’t it?”  
  


“Y-yeah,” Gary bites his lip, tongue heavy and clumsy in his mouth, while Jamie paints pictures for him to wank off to. “I bet you’re incredible at it, J. Your mouth, it was the first thing I noticed about you. How fucking perfect it is.”  
  


“I’d lick my lips as I worked you with my hand,” Jamie says, voice smooth as silk. “Wait until you were leaking precome and I couldn’t stand it—I have to taste, Gaz. I lean forward and lick at you, base to tip, and when I get to the tip, I swirl my tongue round you, suck the head into my mouth and really get a good taste of you.”  
  


Gary tries to choke down a moan but it comes out anyway, slightly muffled, but unmistakable.  
  


“Good, Gaz, keep touching yourself for me,” Jamie croons, “I take more of you into me mouth, and my cheeks go hollow—“  
  


“You’ve got great cheekbones,” Gary says softly, imagining them as he strokes himself slowly, wanting it to last, wanting Jamie’s voice in his ear as long as possible, “the second thing I noticed. I could picture you sucking my cock nearly as soon as I saw you, I was that desperate.”  
  


“Next time you come round, then, okay?” They leave the date up in the air because Gary’s training, and he gets called up to the England side every international break and Jamie’s working, he barely gets a day off, and half of that’s because he signs himself up for way too many shifts and he’s going to kill himself working this hard, Gary worries about it all the time—  
  


“Babe?” Jamie’s voice breaks him out of his train of thought, and it’s such a dear voice, so familiar. Gary smiles a little as he hears it.  
  


“Hm?”  
  


“Next time you come round, yeah? I’ll suck you off. I might not live up to the picture you’ve got in your head, I’ve not had a ton of practice recently, but we’ll try it and see how it goes.”  
  


“And then I’ll suck you too. Don’t want to just take, J, and it’s only fair. But I’ve never given a blowjob before, so full warning.”  
  


“Mate, as long as you don’t use your teeth, it’ll be fine. Most lads are just grateful to have their cocks in a warm, wet mouth. Doesn’t matter how experienced or not experienced it is.”  
  


Gary laughs a little. “Anyway, your cheeks go hollow, then what?”  
  


“Then I suck you, babe, what else? Up and down, up and down, going a little further every time, until I’ve got all of you in me mouth, your balls against me chin. I choke on you a little bit, until I manage to get it under control, and you put your hands in my hair, guide me through it. Babe, not too fast, yeah?”  
  


“Course not,” Gary says breathlessly, jerking himself a little faster and imagining Jamie’s lips wrapped around him, his short, soft hair under his hands.  
  


“I hum around you, and you can feel it, the vibrations of my vocal chords round your cock, and it’s like a vibrator, almost, the most intense thing you’ve ever experienced—“  
  


“Oh, _fuck_ , J, I’m so close—“  
  


“And then I swallow around you, and it’s that tight squeezing feeling, baby. You know, like how when I come and you’re inside me and you feel that tightness? It’s like that, Gaz, and it’s the most perfect feeling, and you can feel it building, love, can’t you?”  
  


“Y-yeah, J, I feel it—“ he lets out another choked moan, and then doesn’t bother muffling it, letting Jamie know exactly how much he’s appreciating this.  
  


He hears something it, across the line. Jamie. His breath is quickening, too, coming out in slightly rushed exhales, and Gary realizes he’s touching himself at the same time.  
  


“Are you—you’re enjoying this, J? Touching yourself to me voice over the phone?”  
  


“Course. I’m tired, too, baby. Need to sleep, same as you.” Gary can hear the smile in Jamie’s voice, and it’s almost as strong a stimulus as his breathing, as his soft whimpers and moans coming across the line and growing in volume.  
  


“You taste so good,” Jamie whispers breathily, “feel so good in my mouth, Gaz, oh my god.”  
  


Gary can’t take it anymore. He comes, moaning loudly as he does. “Babe. Jamie, love, thank you so much, I—I needed that.”  
  


Jamie lets out a louder whimper, a soft gasp, and he’s coming too, or at least Gary thinks so.  
  


“Me too,” he says a moment later, confirming Gary’s thoughts. “Better get to sleep soon, before the prolactin wears off. Good night, love.”  
  


“Night, J.” Gary hangs up the phone and wipes the come onto a tissue before rolling over and promptly falling into dreams about Jamie giving him a blowjob in the shower. The dreams shift, to a quickie in the locker room while the rest of the lads are away or warming up, or fucking Jamie in the showers, after his teammates have all gone home. Seeing Jamie in the stands, wearing his kit and smiling for him. Only for him. Jamie on his back in bed, wearing Gary’s kit backwards, so he can see his surname across his chest, his number large across his chest and stomach.  
  


He wakes feeling rested, for once.  
  
  


 

 

  
David comes up to him after practice a few days later. 

  
"Uh, Victoria's going to be out of town for awhile. And I'm not—I'm not sure I want to be alone." His voice rises at the end of the sentence, nearly a question.  
  


"Come stay at mine," Gary offers instantly, regretting the words as soon as they're out. It’s instinct, at this point—they always do this when David’s girlfriend goes away, even before he’d started dating Victoria. He doesn’t like being alone, and Gary had always loved having him around—he didn’t much like living alone, either, and David’s his best friend and his _David_. But things have changed now, though. Now that he has Jamie. He’s finally wrapping his head around the idea that David’s straight and uninterested, and now _this_. The timing couldn’t be worse, but he can’t find the words to take it back, either, so he just fortifies himself for a tough few days.  
  


David's smiling though, glad to accept the offer, so Gary can't have messed up that badly. If David’s happy, Gary’s willing to undergo a little internal agonizing. He’s done it for years now anyway.  
  


David moves in for awhile. Days turn into a week.  
  


Two weeks.

 

Three.   
  
  
  
Gary gets used to it, falls back in love with the person David is. That’s maybe the hardest thing about being in love with his best mate. He can’t even comfort himself with the thought that he’s only in love with the _idea_ of David. He _knows_  David. Better than almost anyone. Better than he knows Jamie. Better than Victoria knows David. So of course Gary loves having him around, loves that David cooks for him, loves that they fall asleep curled up together on the sofa while watching Match of the Day, loves everything about it.  
  


He and David are best mates, as they’ve always been, but there's an intimacy that comes from living together, a sort of exquisite physical and emotional intimacy that only makes Gary love him more.   
  


Jamie calls a few times, and Gary's maybe a bit distracted. Once it’s because David’s asked him where the wooden spoons are, and he’s thinking about it, because he _must_ have one, surely—Once it’s because they’re watching a film and David’s whining about having to pause it because he doesn’t want to miss any of the dialogue. Once it’s because David’s asleep on Gary’s shoulder as they both lounge on the sofa.  
  


The conversation is awkward every time. Eventually, he mentions that David's staying, and Jamie picks up on the hint. They still talk, now and again, just to check in, usually, because Gary can't say anything romantic in front of David, not without feeling completely stupid.  
  


Sometimes it’s awkward because David picks up the phone. He gets calls at Gary's house, too, from his parents and his grandparents. He picks up the phone when Jamie calls, too, a few times, despite Gary's rush towards it.  
  


"Lad called Jamie on the line, Gaz? Says he's a mate of yours from school, but he sounds like a Scouser, man, I dunno—"

  
Gary takes the phone call, with an eagerness that David notices with a quirked eyebrow.  
  


"Tell him," Jamie says softly, now and again, each time he calls during those three weeks, "tell him you love him, Gaz."  
  
  
  
  
  
They're curled up on the sofa together one day, watching a match Gary had taped of their next opponent, and Gary's pointing things out about the side, where the flaws are and where it's strong.  
  


Halftime comes around, and instead of fast forwarding to the second half, Gary sits back and looks at his best friend. There’s no shift that lets the light shine into his hazel eyes and light them up a thousand different colors. David’s hair doesn’t even have product in it. He’s just barefoot on Gary’s sofa, wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants and Gary can’t help it. He's devastatingly in love with him, and the words are going to choke him if he doesn't set them free.  
  


"I love you, Becks," he says quietly, heart beating like a hummingbird's wings.  
  


"I love you too," David says easily.  
  


Gary swallows, hard. "No. David. I-uh, I’m _in love_ with you. My—the person I talk to on the phone and call babe and love and sweetheart—that person isn't a woman. I  _love_ you _._ "  
  


David stares at him for a moment, gaping.   
  


"You're—you're gay?"  
  


Gary nods. "I love you," he says again, quietly, clinging to the words—the truest he's ever spoken. He almost can’t stop saying them now. He’s finally sharing himself with David, his truest self, and it’s the most incredible feeling, even if he’s paralyzed with fear at the same time. He doesn’t even know how he can exist like this, ecstatic and terrified all in one, stomach tying itself into knots.

  
David leans in and presses his lips to Gary’s. His lips are warm and dry and hesitant, as if he isn’t sure how to kiss, even though Gary happens to know he’s an expert. It’s as if he’s starting over, almost, learning how to kiss Gary, and Gary knows enough to let him take this at his own pace.

 

He grows more comfortable fairly quickly, letting out a soft sound at the way Gary’s stubble and facial hair scratches at his smooth jaw, and suddenly, Gary's laying back on the sofa and David's on top of him, kissing him harder and sliding a hand under his shirt to rest against his stomach.

 

“But you have a boyfriend—“ David whispers against his mouth. Gary’s heart leaps into his mouth. All he can hear is Jamie’s voice in his head. _I don’t want to be your boyfriend, Gary._ He can hear it all, Jamie telling him he couldn’t live in his home and cook him dinner and go to his matches.

 

David, of course, already did all those things. Besides, Gary was in love with him. That was the beginning and end of the story, wasn’t it? Jamie was the hot fling, and David was the Prince Charming at the end of the book.

 

Gary shakes his head. “I don’t. He’s not my boyfriend—we’re just friends. We hook up sometimes, and I like—I like talking to him, but—but he’s known from the beginning that I love you. He knew the first time we fucked that I was in love with you.” He leaves out the ugly bits of the story. That Jamie had been gentle, that he’d been a good kisser, that Gary’d called out David’s name while they’d been together.

 

“I’d like to meet him sometime,” David says softly, kissing him again, hand traveling up Gary’s chest until he’s gently brushing his thumb over Gary’s nipple, catching the way Gary’s breath catches at the touch.

 

“They’re sensitive, aren’t they,” he marvels, smiling as Gary nods.

 

“Very.”

 

David pulls away a little, pulling Gary’s shirt up insistently and letting out a pleased hum when Gary lets him take it off completely.

 

He leans back down and wraps his lips around one of Gary’s nipples, eyes dilating as Gary whimpers and shifts from the attention, legs parting so that David’s hips lay squarely on top of his.

 

“You happy to see me, Gaz?” David teases, blowing gently onto his nipple and watching it pebble as his saliva dries before grazing his teeth against the sensitive skin.

 

“Always,” Gary breathes, one hand firmly planted in David’s hair.

 

“You’ll have to tell me how,” David murmurs, and Gary realizes for the first time that he’s not the only one who’s aroused.

 

“You wanna fuck me?” He can hear the desperation in his own voice, the hopefulness, and it’s almost pathetic, but he doesn’t care. It’s _David_. This is the stuff of dreams. He’ll be damned if he lets this opportunity slip. He doesn’t care, about David’s girlfriend. He doesn’t care about Jamie, even, though there’s a small voice whispering protests, whispering his name in the back of Gary’s head.

 

David nods. “More than anything, Gaz. I didn’t know—how could I have known? You’re my best friend, and I wanna try, love, _please_ —”

 

Gary pulls him in for another kiss before pushing him away and standing up. He holds out his hand. “Come to bed with me, Becks. Please. I’ve waited so long for you.”

 

David takes his hand, rising to his feet, too, and kissing Gary again. He tastes incredible, the way he uses his _tongue_ —it’s enough to make Gary’s head spin.

 

He’s reluctant to part from him, so he just wraps his arms around David and walks them backwards until David clutches him closer with an odd urgency to it, and Gary knows they’re at the stairs. “Come up to bed,” he says softly, pushing his sweats down to his ankles and stepping out of them, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and looking at David in the way he would’ve looked at Jamie if he’d wanted to seduce him.

 

It works on David, too, and he tugs off his shirt, photoshoot-ready even with his mussed hair and flat, strong stomach rippling with muscles that were so familiar, Gary had had them memorized for years.

 

They manage to get up the stairs without falling or breaking any bones, somehow, and they’re in Gary’s room, in front of his queen bed— _so much larger than Jamie’s little single one,_ a voice whispers to him.

 

“I—I don’t know how,” David murmurs.

 

“I’ll show you,” Gary whispers, kissing him again, sliding David’s sweats to the floor and then pulling his briefs down too, as well as his own.

 

He sinks to his knees, stroking David’s cock reverently before he wraps his lips around it and lets out a pleased hum, closing his eyes as he savors the taste he’d wondered about for so many years. He sinks down lower, breathing carefully through his nose.

 

 _I’ve never given a blowjob before_ , he thinks to himself, remembering Jamie’s voice on the phone for a fraction of a second and wondering if he’s doing it right, but the way David looks is encouraging, breathing unsteady and whispering praise. He pulls away and guides him so he’s sitting on the bed ( _Gary’s bed_ , a triumphant, disbelieving voice reminds him in his head).

 

He kneels between David’s knees. “I haven’t ever done this before,” he confesses softly, “so be gentle with me, okay?”

 

David nods, a wave of tenderness flooding his eyes. Gary leans down and presses a kiss to the inner side of his thigh before wrapping his lips around him again. He takes a deep breath and pulls David’s hands into his hair, sinking lower and lower, until he’s gagging.

 

“Shh, it’s okay,” David whispers, “you’re doing brilliant, Gaz, so good, you’re doing so well, we can work on it, okay? We’ll practice on each other, get better at it.” At first it’s like Gary’s underwater, so focused on his task he can barely hear him, but the words crash into him. _We’ll practice on each other. Get better at it._

 

This wasn’t going to be a one-time thing. He uses his hand to stroke what he can’t manage to get into his mouth, savoring the way David moans and whimpers.

 

He pulls away. “Do you still wanna fuck me, David?”

 

Becks nods, looking a little dazed, and Gary grins, letting himself be pulled onto David’s lap, letting himself be kissed to within an inch of his life. He finally pulls himself apart from David, leaning over to dig through his nightstand for the lube.

 

“I’ve used a condom every single time I’ve been with anyone,” he mumbles to David’s shoulder, “but I want to feel you, love. Please. I’ve been waiting so long. Is—is that okay?”

 

David nods. “I don’t know how,” he says again, sounding slightly nervous.

 

“It’s just like anal with a girl,” Gary says reassuringly, “you need lube, you need to open me up. I can do it this time, if you want.”

 

David nods, and Gary expertly slicks his fingers and his entrance and slides a finger inside himself, gasping at the sensation. “You need two, at least,” Gary whispers, preparing to put another one in.

 

“Baby,” David says reverently, “can I do it?”

 

Gary nods. “Just use a lot, okay? I’m not wet down there like a girl would be.”

 

David nods and uses a generous amount on his fingers and on Gary’s entrance before he slides one finger in slowly and then pushes the second in beside it. It’s awkward for a moment, but he learns quickly, until he’s steadily finger-fucking Gary, scissoring his fingers until he opens up a little more.

 

“Bend them, inside me, just—just _there_ , David, baby, well done!” Gary praises.

 

“Are you—you’re ready?” David asks softly, and Gary nods. David pulls his fingers out, looking a little reluctant, but Gary settles against the pillow and spreads his legs.

 

“Quite a bit of lube on your cock, babe, and then—then you’ll be ready. Slow at first, okay?”

 

 _You didn’t have to show Jamie how_ , whispers that traitorous little voice. _He just knew. He just knew how to make love to you_.

 

 _Nobody knows their first time_ , he reminds himself, smiling up at David and moaning loudly as he slides in, almost achingly slowly. Gary lets out a strangled gasp as he bottoms out, finally pulling David down for another kiss.

 

“How does it feel, being inside me?” He asks David, holding him close for a second while he breathes through the feeling of being stretched.

 

“It’s—you’re incredible, Gaz. Amazing. So tight around me, so hot— _fuck_ —“ David’s breathing heavily already, pressing his lips to Gary’s throat.

 

“Please—I need you to move now, Davey. I’m begging you, I need you to fuck me now—“

 

David’s breath hitches at the words and he kisses him again as he pulls out a few inches and pushes back in, still gentle, as if he’s afraid Gary will break.

 

“Harder,” Gary demands, bucking his hips up to pull David in deeper.

 

“Yes, _sir_ ,” David mumbles, focusing on leaving a hickey at the base of Gary’s neck as he thrusts.

 

He gets the hang of it, eventually, and he’s fucking Gary steadily, leaning down to kiss him as if he just can’t get enough of the taste of his lips, and Gary’s in absolute heaven.

 

“I love you, I love you, _I love you_ —“ he chants as he gets close to his orgasm, nearly screaming the words when he finally comes.

 

He wraps his arms around David, not bothering to clean himself up. He doesn’t even care that he'll have to wash the sheets. He just wants David to sleep next to him tonight and maybe fuck him again tomorrow morning.

 

 

 

 

Morning comes too soon.


	5. Chapter 5

Gary wakes up next to David, warm and strong. He’s still a little sore, and it takes him a few seconds to register the ringing of the phone. David’s quicker on the uptake than he is, and he lunges for the phone, answering with a sleepy “’llo?”

 

There’s a moment of quiet as David listens to the person on the other side speak, before he nudges Gary and hands it to him.

 

“It’s Jamie,” he informs him, and Gary realizes that David doesn’t know that Jamie is _his_.

 

 _Was_ his?

 

Gary takes the phone into his hand, clearing his throat a little before he speaks. “Hi, J.”

 

“Did you two fall asleep on the sofa, or…?”

 

Gary pauses, long enough for Jamie to figure it out. “We slept together,” he admits finally.

 

“Oh.” Jamie inhales deeply. “That’s good, then. Congratulations.”

 

“Don’t hang up,” Gary begs, “I’m sorry—you know how I feel about him, you’ve known from the beginning—“ David’s looking at him, wide-eyed and concerned, reaching up to squeeze his shoulder in comfort.

 

“It’s okay,” Jamie says, and there’s something off about it. He sounds almost genuine, and Gary can’t quite put his finger on it, the thing that’s bothering him, until he realizes suddenly that it’s the smile. Jamie’s voice is different when he smiles, the words change shape, and this is one of the few times he _isn’t_ smiling over the phone. “It really is okay. Honestly. I knew he’d want you back, Gaz. It’s kind of impossible _not_ to want you back. And it’s good timing, really, I’m just starting a new rotation. I’m going to be so busy, I just wanted to call to let you know I probably wouldn’t be able to talk as much anyway.”

 

“Jamie—“

 

“I hope you two are really happy together. I mean it. You deserve to be happy with the man you love, Gary Neville.”

 

“I don’t want to lose you,” Gary confesses, recognizing the truth of it, stark in the warm light of day, “could I still call you?”

 

“Bit greedy, that, isn’t it?” Jamie asks lightly. “Besides, you’ve got a stunning golden-blonde footballer in your bed, you can talk to him just as well.”

 

“No, I mean it. I care about you. You’re my… friend. You’re the first person who really knew me. All of me. And I don’t want to lose that.”

 

There’s a long pause, as Jamie doesn’t say anything and Gary just waits. “You can call,” Jamie says finally, “I just can’t promise to answer. I’m starting a really busy rotation, irregular hours… And I’m going to need you to be a little more discreet if you leave messages. I’ve got company coming by and he might stay for a few days, and I don’t want him recognizing your voice.”

 

“Right.” Him. _Him_. It could be anyone, couldn’t it? A mate, a brother, a classmate or colleague or boyfriend—but probably not a boyfriend, because Jamie wouldn’t cheat. Right? Of course not. He wasn’t callous enough to do it. He’s do the right thing, the way he always did the right thing and end it before—unless Gary’d just done the right thing for him. Maybe the him that wasn’t a boyfriend now would become a boyfriend, now that Gary’d slept with someone else first.

 

Something deflates inside him, some little bubble that had been there almost without him knowing. “Yeah, right, of course. I’ll keep that in mind if I phone you.”

 

“You can still write,” Jamie says, voice a little softer, “if you really need to talk, you can still write me.”

 

Gary agrees, and Jamie mentions reading up on some diseases and pathologies before his shift in a couple of hours and Gary obligingly says his goodbyes.

 

“That was him then?” David asks quietly. Gary nods and takes David’s hand in his own, playing with his fingers.

 

“It was after France. I was going mad. I just—I don’t know what I was thinking. Went out to a club.” David looks confused and Gary flushes a little and looks away. “A gay club,” he clarifies. “I went out to find a one-night stand. But he—David, if you’d _met_ him, he’s just—he got under my skin and I begged him to take a chance on me.”

 

“You said he wasn’t your boyfriend,” David says quietly, “I don’t want to be the person you cheat with, Gary. Or the one you cheat on.”

 

“You’re not,” Gary says quietly, “we’ve only seen each other a few times. It’s mostly just phone calls. He’s a med student, I’m training—we’re too busy. He knew from day one that I was in love with someone else, and he knew who it was, too. He said right away that he wouldn’t be my boyfriend. Besides, I think he might like someone else, too. One of his friends from when he was a kid.”

 

David blinks and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Gary, you are the most complicated man I’ve ever met.”

 

“And you’re the only man I know who’s ever completely understood me,” Gary shoots back, heart starting to beat a little faster in his chest. “Jamie—he doesn’t love me. He doesn’t. He—god, it was the _weirdest_ fucking thing—but he’s kind of obsessed with you. Every time he phoned me he’d tell me to confess to you, said you’d take it well, and I just—I didn’t believe him. But it just got heavier and heavier and I couldn’t stop _thinking_ about it, about _you_ , and, you were so close—“

 

David’s eyes soften a little. “If you’re going to be mine, I’m not sharing you with him. You can speak on the phone, that’s fine, but I don’t want you sleeping with him, Gary.”

 

Gary nods. “I won’t. It’ll be easy not to. He’s all the way down in Birmingham—he was just looking for an excuse to cut me loose anyway.”

 

 _No he wasn’t_ , a voice whispers in his head, _he was starting to like you, you twat. And now you’ve gone and ruined it._

 

“Come shower with me,” David says. Gary leans up and kisses him properly. Even his morning breath tastes good.

 

It _must_ be love.

 

It must be.

 

 

 

 

It’s brilliant, with David. He’s gorgeous and he cooks and he knows Gary inside and out and he’s a quick learner, so pretty soon, he knows exactly how Gary likes to be fucked, how to make him scream in pleasure, and he knows what kind of kisses he needs after a loss and what kind he needs after a long day of traveling, and what kind of champagne-flavored kisses he likes after a win. They come home after training, sometimes back to Gary’s and sometimes over to David’s, too, though that’s rarer. David doesn’t mention Victoria, and Gary doesn’t ask. He tells himself that the breakup must not have gone well, and if that little voice in the back of his head whispers, he ignores it.

 

They’re in love, him and David, and it’s perfect. Every single thing is _perfect_. Brushing their teeth in the same sink, when they get dressed for the day and David ends up wearing one of Gary’s t-shirts and doesn’t change into his own instead.

 

Gary calls Jamie, but just the once. He gets the machine, and wonders if Jamie’s at work or just screening his calls.

 

_Hi. It’s me. Call me if you can._

Jamie calls him back once, while he’s at training, and leaves a polite message. _Hi, Gary. I’m sorry to have missed your call. Hopefully we’ll find a time to talk._ There’s male laughter in the room and it isn’t Jamie’s, and whatever Gary had hoped would happen—daily phone calls with Jamie followed by nightly hookups with David—never comes to pass.

 

Jamie doesn’t leave any details about his schedule or when he’s free. He offers the bare minimum of pleasantries, and barely even _asks_ to be called back, probably, Gary assumes, because he doesn’t want to be. Gary takes the hint and doesn’t phone him again.

 

He takes to writing little notes with things he wants to tell Jamie, and tucks them into plain envelopes—no address, no stamp—that get tucked into his nightstand drawer and never looked at again.

 

It’s a couple months in with David when he gets a phone call and tells Gary abruptly that he’s got to go back to his own place for a few days. “I’ve got a leak in the bathroom, I’ve got to get it taken care of, make sure it’s fixed before the whole ceiling falls in.”

 

Gary understands. Of course he does. Shit happens, and so he kisses David once more and drags him off to the bedroom for a proper goodbye.

 

Training the next day is strange. David’s aloof, paler than usual, a little out of it, not as sharp on the ball. He still manages to score a goal, and when Gary runs over and throws himself at him to celebrate, he pats him awkwardly on the back and pulls away as soon as he can with a strained smile.

 

Gary understands, of course. He doesn’t want to out them by accident. It’s just hard, when he loves him so much. When he’s waited so long to be allowed to want him.

 

David follows him home that afternoon. They drive in separate cars, just so that David can have a hypothetical way to get home, even though he’s going to stay the night, of course.

 

They walk into the house, and Gary takes David’s hand in his own. “You were brilliant today, babe. Just—you’re just so incredible, I have no idea how I got so lucky with you—“

 

David pulls his hand away and swallows hard, avoiding Gary’s eyes as he walks into the kitchen and puts on the kettle to make tea.

 

“Sit down,” he says quietly.

 

Gary’s stomach sinks to his toes. The gay crisis. He’d been expecting this, if he was honest with himself.

 

“You don’t have to have a crisis over being with a man, you know. People have always done it. It’s a natural thing. Even if you haven’t done it before, some people don’t find out they’re gay until later in life—“

 

“I’m not gay,” David says abruptly.

 

“Well, what we’ve been doing has been pretty fucking gay, David, or do you not remember the parts where you’ve been fucking me? Having sex with a man, David. It’s a pretty _gay_ thing to do.” There’s a bite to Gary’s voice, and he’s maybe a little angrier than he thought he’d be, given who David is to him. David flinches at the word gay every single time, and it just _hurts_.

 

It hits him harder than he thought it would, and maybe it’s because he recognizes the three little words. He’s heard them before, he’s said them before, the texture of them sits heavy in his memories, in his ears and throat and even now—even now, he’s never admitted that maybe he might be, never written the words down or said them out loud. He’s had the thought, maybe, but he’s never actually said it, because he’s a coward about this still, because it’s 1999 and he’s a professional footballer and now that he’s found love, David has the fucking _audacity_ to say—

 

“I’m not gay. I’ve loved women before. I’m attracted to women.”

 

“You’re not attracted to me, then. Seeing as how I’m not a woman. I thought my dick might’ve hinted at that.”

 

“No! I—I want you, too. Just—it’s never been _like_ this for me.”

 

“Me neither,” Gary says eagerly, taking David’s hands again, “but we’ll figure it out, make it work, we can talk about it, love, you know I love you, I’ve loved you since I was fifteen, probably—“

 

David looks away, but his eyes almost seem wet as he swallows past the lump in his throat. “Victoria’s pregnant.”

 

Gary blinks. “Sorry?”

 

“Victoria. She’s pregnant. I’m going to propose to her. She didn’t notice the first time she missed her period, she was on tour and all that, but then she missed another one, and she thought maybe it was because she was losing weight, you know, and she didn’t have much on her to lose, it messes with a woman’s body—But then the morning sickness started. They’re cancelling the rest of the tour, she’s coming back home to be here with me. I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

 

Gary feels vaguely nauseous, and pauses a moment to reflect on the fucking irony that _Victoria’s_ probably feeling nauseous too.

 

His brain completely short-circuits—he can’t muster up the effort to make an excuse. “I-I’m going upstairs now,” he says quietly. He’s numb, and devastation is starting to sink into him and ruin him, like a notebook left out in the rain, all runny ink and stuck-together pages. He just needs to go somewhere David _isn’t,_ even if that means being alone again.

 

David grabs his wrist, and his hold is like fire. Gary’s burning from the touch, he can’t stand being touched by David right now, won’t be able to stand it ever again—

 

“I love you.” It’s a punch in the gut, because for the first time, Gary can’t tell if his best friend is lying to him. And even if he’s not—does he love him in a platonic way, in a romantic way? Does he love him as a brother, but not a lover? As a teammate who passes to him just right?

 

“I need to go upstairs now. I need you not to follow me, David.” Gary speaks slowly and distinctly, and maybe half of that is for emphasis, but the other half is just because he feels like the moment is stuck in molasses, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth and each word painstakingly reluctant to form.

 

He walks away, and David watches him go as the kettle begins to whistle.

 

He drags himself up the stairs and he doesn’t turn around to see if David’s followed him.

 

(He had. But just to the base of the stairs, and he’d stood there, watching Gary take each step and lift himself up, watching him until he’d turned into his bedroom and out of sight. He’d set his left foot onto the first step and considered defying his request and following Gary all the way up, all the way to wherever the hell Gary wanted to go—

 

He brings his left foot back down, slipping back into the kitchen and making two steaming hot cups of tea.)

 

Gary sits on the bed, drowning in the silence and stillness of their bedroom—and how fucking pathetic is _that_? He’s been living in this house for years, and just two months into a relationship, he’s already calling it _theirs_.

 

He lets himself fall back onto the bed. He wants to phone Phil, but even Phil doesn’t know about him being gay, let alone about _David_. He dials the number automatically.

 

“Hullo?” Jamie sounds distracted, but he’s picked up the phone. Gary feels it as much as he hears it, feels the word pass over him like a wave, in that familiar voice, that same intonation.

 

“God, you don’t know how good it is to hear your _voice_.” Gary’s voice is thicker than he’d like it to be.

 

“Gary.” Jamie sounds surprised, in the way a student would be surprised at a pop quiz. Unpleasant. He tries not to let it drip through his voice. Gary knows he tries to school his expression, but it sinks through, when he dislikes people.

 

“I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m _sorry_. I just didn’t know who else to call—“

 

Something in his voice must alarm Jamie somewhat, because he sounds alert and concerned. “What’s happened, Gary? Are you alright? Is it your family? I’m not a doctor yet, I can’t be a second opinion, but I can try to help you understand—“

 

Gary chokes out a laugh. “It’s not that. God, it’s not that. It’s David.”

 

“Is he okay? You two aren’t married, partners don’t have many legal rights, but you are friends, you should be able to access his bedside if his family allows it—“

 

“Stop—it’s not him. I mean it is him, but he’s not—sick. He knocked up his ex-girlfriend. Or I think she’s his ex, I never asked him to break up with her? I just—I’ve waited so long for him, y’know? I didn’t want to ask too much and have him leave me. I don’t know how I’ll cope without him—“

 

"Hey. _Hey_ ," Jamie says softly, "slow down. You two, you've been together since I called you last time?"

  
Gary nods, humming in agreement when he realizes that Jamie isn't in the same room as him.

 

"And his girlfriend, how far along is she?"

  
Something sinks like a stone in Gary's stomach, every night they’d been apart suddenly suspect. "I-I don't know how far along. She's missed two periods and she's having morning sickness."

  
"I haven’t had my OB/GYN rotation yet, but it sounds like she's a few months along," Jamie says gently, "I don't think—for what it's worth, I think it was before you got together, at least, love."

  
The pet name hangs in the air between them, soft and careless in a way that Jamie hadn’t been since they’d broken it off. It takes Gary away, takes his mind off David for a moment and makes him think about when Jamie calling him love had been normal, when it had happened every single day. How it still stole his breath away, even then, when it was just part of his life. 

  
"I miss you," Gary confesses, "I love him, but I miss you, too, J. We didn't- I know it was mostly just talking on the phone, I know there were only a few days we got to actually _see_ each other, be in the same space together—but I missed you. Hearing your voice used to make my whole day. Even now, you still make me feel better."

  
“We were good friends,” Jamie agrees quietly, “and maybe we could be again. But it’s not me you need to be talking to right now, love. Go talk to David. Work things out. I’d make it better for you if I could. You know that, right? I would fix everything if I knew how. But only he can make it better now, Gary.”

  
“I don’t know how,” Gary whispers. “I can’t—when I look at him, J, my chest hurts, and I don’t know _how_ to talk to him—it’s not fair, I know that, he was her boyfriend, we weren’t even together at the time, probably. But having him and losing him is so much worse—“

  
“You’re not losing me.” David’s voice comes in suddenly from the doorway.

  
“David—“

  
“Call me later, Gary. I’m working tonight, but I’ll return your call, love, I promise. Tonight, even, if you don’t mind me waking you.”

  
“Yeah, sure,” Gary says distractedly, “bye, J, talk later.” He hangs up the phone and instinctively misses the feeling of holding it, of something solid that he could hold onto, the feeling of Jamie’s voice in his ear, telling him that things would be okay.

“You’re not losing me,” David says again, louder and firmer this time.

“You’re going to _marry_ her, David. Of course I’m fucking _losing_  you! Did you even break up with her in the first place?”

David stays quiet, looking at the ground like a child getting a lecture from his parents.

  
What a fucking analogy, Gary thinks, the words searing across his mind. Considering that of course, one day there _would_ be a child, looking at the ground after David lectured him. Because David was going to be a father. And Gary wasn’t, even though he loved kids and wanted them and they liked him too, the way he tossed them into the air and caught them and gave them piggyback rides. But then, David would learn those things, with Victoria, and Gary would be the kid’s uncle, passing through his life now and then, a person on the telly and in old photographs of their dad.

  
“You didn’t break up with her. You just cheated, with me. Because I was here and willing to spread my legs for you, or bend over the sofa for you, or get on my knees for you. _Fuck you, David_.” Gary’s voice only gets louder and louder, until the last three words land with all the sting of a slap.

  
“Baby—“ David starts softly, “I’m sorry, I love you—she was on tour, I thought she would end up leaving me anyway—and then she phoned a couple of days ago and I just had to go see her, there’s a picture of him, of our little baby. And I couldn’t leave her after that, Gaz, how could I leave the _mother of my child_ —”

  
“Him?”

  
“What?”

  
“Him. You said him. The baby’s a boy, then?” Gary has a sudden, masochistic desire to know every single detail, to dig the pain in deeper, to know what kind of wedding dress she’ll wear, and where David will hold the wedding, and when the baby is due and whether it’s a boy or a girl, and of course David wants a boy, someone to play football with, someone who will carry on the legacy—

  
David looks caught off guard by the question. “It’s too early to tell. Vic and I have a bet on, I think he’s gonna be a little boy, she thinks it might be a little girl. I wouldn’t mind either, but I just _know_ he’s a boy—“ The more he talks about it, the warmer his voice grows, the more he looks golden and untouchable, like that brilliant demigod that Gary had loved from afar for all those years.

  
“Congratulations,” Gary says softly, “now if you’ve _ever_ cared about me, as a friend, as a teammate, as… whatever, please get the fuck out of my house.”

  
“Gary, please—I don’t want to go, I want to stay here and be with you—“

  
“David—“ Gary remembers Jamie’s voice on the phone, the way he talked to him, the way he’d talk to a patient, or an injured animal, soft and soothing. The way he’d told Gary to talk to David.

  
“Downstairs, then. Not in my bedroom.” **_My_** _bedroom_ , because it is, of course. Gary’s and nobody else’s, because David is going to marry Victoria and Jamie is in Birmingham studying, and there’s never going to be a _we_ who own this space, only ever an _I_ , an ever-lonely, ever-yearning _I_ , and if Gary thinks about it, he’s going to start crying, so he has to _stop_ —

  
“You go when I tell you to go, David, no discussion.” Gary doesn’t wait for a response, just walks past him, further from the phone, further from Jamie, down the stairs to stand in the kitchen—the most neutral room in the house. The living room was too soft, all warm leather sofas—that was where they’d kissed for the first time. Even the kitchen is soaked in memories of David cooking, of doing the dishes and feeling David’s lips against his neck, turning and feeling almost unspeakably happy, because Gary had never had this before.

  
Even if he had, once, in a tiny apartment with a single bed and a poster of Michael Owen on the inside of the closet door.

  
He sees the kettle and wishes he had some tea without having to _make_ it, wants to hold something warm, wants the heat against his hands, his lips, his throat, steadying his stomach.

  
He sits on one of the barstools, moving it a few inches away from its neighbor so they can have some distance between them.

  
“What did you want to talk about, David?” Gary’s voice is all wrong, all blank and robotic and numb, and David cringes as he hears it.

  
“I just wanted to talk about us.”

  
“You’re going to go marry Victoria. You didn’t even break it off with her, and I’m guessing she doesn’t know you fucked me every chance you had. You cheated on her with me, Davey. Played with me until she got home to you again.”

  
“ _No_ , love, that’s not what this was, I swear to God, I _liked_ you! I do like you, still. I—I still want—when we’re traveling, or when we’re alone, I still want you. I think I’ll always want you, Gary.”

  
“Fucking greedy, that,” Gary says, and the words are bitterer than when Jamie had said them to him, just a few months ago, “fucking _greedy_ to still want to fuck your best mate after you get engaged. Am I going to be your best man, too? Throw you a stag do, make a toast about how brilliant Victoria is and how lucky you are to have her, and somehow leave out the part where we slept together and _I’ve been in love with you for almost a decade_? Is that what we’re meant to do? Because _you_ might be able to pull it off, you’ve got all that acting practice, but I don’t think _I_ can _._ ”

  
David leans forward and wraps his arms around him. It’s awful, not because it’s bad, but because it’s so _familiar_. David’s still warm, his body’s still the same, even now that he’s going to be engaged. Even now that he’s not Gary’s anymore. David leans in and kisses his neck, and it would be so _easy_ , to slip back into old patterns again.

  
“I want to be yours, love,” David murmurs, kissing his jaw. “I want that more than anything.”

  
It’s not _true_ , though, is it.

  
“I want to be yours, too,” Gary chokes out miserably, “that’s all I’ve ever wanted, Davey. Just to be yours.”

  
David pulls away, just slightly, and leans in, pressing his mouth to Gary’s, and it’s infuriating, the way he presumes Gary will kiss him back, and it’s completely baffling, that Gary does.

  
They sit in the kitchen and kiss for a long while, maybe because it’s easier than talking, and maybe because Gary can almost forget everything when David’s kissing him like this, and Victoria and the tiny little bean in her womb that’ll grow into a person almost seem like a nightmare. Because David’s _here_ , isn’t he? He’s with Gary. Not his pregnant fiancée. Or almost-fiancée.

  
David stands up and holds a hand out for Gary to take. “Let’s go upstairs and make love in our bed,” he says quietly. It’d gotten dark, at some point, and it’s as if they’d had a fight over something else, something like the fact that David redid the dishes after Gary’d done them because they weren’t right. Something like the fact that Gary left his dirty towels on the floor, and it made David’s OCD go haywire.

 

But of course, this isn't one of those fights. It's a fight about David leaving him. Or maybe it's about David not leaving him, and Gary facing a lifetime of being the other person in David's marriage. Being the affair.

  
_Would it be that different?_ asks a treacherous voice in the back of Gary's head. _You're in the closet anyway, David's in love with his wife, you were never going to be his_ husband _, you fucking_ idiot _.  
_

  
_Not his wife_ , Gary reminds himself, _she isn't his wife. Not yet_.

  
Gary wonders what Jamie would think of him, just for a fraction of a second, as he takes David's hand.

  
He forces himself to forget. He can process later. It’s time to make mistakes that he won't regret. He takes David's hand and lets himself be kissed. He lets himself be led through his own house, ignoring the farcical nature of all of this, how fucking _stupid_ he feels walking backwards up the stairs as he gets snogged ferociously by a man who isn't his anymore because he never was.

  
  
There's something ugly and performative about the way David takes his clothes off, something superficial about the way he worships every inch of just-bared skin. He doesn't expect it when David sinks down to his knees, but somehow, he still isn't surprised. It's just David, trying to buy forgiveness with his good looks.

  
"I wanna try." David sounds brave, but Gary can hear the nerves in his voice, see them in his face. He unzips his fly and unbuttons his jeans, keeping them on as a naked David pulls out his cock, gazing at it with some trepidation. "You know I've never sucked a man off before," he murmurs, setting his hands firmly onto Gary's hips. "Stay still," he whispers. He licks him first, dragging his tongue from the base up to the tip before swiping his tongue over the top, and Gary's already starting to leak precome, appallingly enough.

  
He's still angry, or he's trying to still be angry, but it's hard, when David wraps his lips around the tip of his cock and sucks tentatively. Gary can see the moment he first tastes him, the slight grimace at the taste, and he can see the moment David steels himself and makes the decision to ignore the flavor and keep going. It's that same rigid determination he'd seen in David's eyes for years, really, each time preseason started and they all had to push through the pain barrier. Each time they'd had a grueling match that felt like it'd been four hours long.

  
He shoves a hand into David's hair, feeling rebelliously content when it gets mussed. He pushes David down further, until he's gagging, and then he lets him up again. David looks up at him, all wide, hazel eyes, and red, wet mouth.

  
"Suck my cock," Gary orders harshly. His voice is an octave lower and more aggressive, less fond than it's ever been with David. He's angry, still. This is punishment for David, as much as it's meant to be a twisted sort of pleasure for him.

  
David blinks and starts sucking him harder, head bobbing as if this wasn't the first time he'd ever had a cock in his mouth.

  
_Whore_ , Gary thinks harshly, but he doesn't say the word because he's not that far gone, and he never will be.

  
David pulls away for a moment. "I love you," he confesses. It's one of the first times he's said it, and it's so wretchedly unfair that it splinters Gary's heart and sets it alight, angry, burning fire in his veins because _he still loves him_. He loves him and he hates him, too, for ruining everything, for being perfect and gorgeous and wonderful and brilliantly talented and stupidly funny and ridiculously easy to fall in love with.

  
He leans back in and sucks Gary back into his mouth, sucking him harder and faster until he spills into his mouth with a gasp and a quiet moan that he can't quite make himself control.

Gary pulls away, too, tucks himself back into his trousers. "I need you to leave, David. Get dressed."

  
“But—“

  
“Get dressed, David, and then get out of my house. We’re done.”

  
David’s face falls, and he looks devastated, and Gary couldn’t care less. He’s almost completely numb. He stands there, naked with hands on hips and soft, flaccid cock hanging limp between his legs, still damp with David’s saliva, rapidly cooling. He watches David get dressed. His fingers ache to help somehow, to step in close and do up his shirt buttons. His mouth feels the ghost of every goodbye kiss at the same time as it feels the cruel, frigid air between them and desperate for warmth, his lips press together in a thin line. David’s fully dressed and all the way at the door when Gary decides it hasn’t been enough quite yet.

  
“Don’t call me. I’ll call you, when I’m ready to talk.” David looks at him, reluctant acceptance in his eyes, and nods. Gary doesn’t move. He doesn’t move as he hears David’s footfalls on the stairs, and he doesn’t move as he hears the front door opening. When it closes, though, his feet take him forward to the window, watching David walk into his car, watching him slam his hands into the steering wheel in anger and frustration. He watches him sign and yell in his car, watches his shoulders slump in defeat for a moment as he straightens his spine and reverses the car out of the drive. He watches until David gets onto the road, and he watches as he drives off.

  
He watches until David’s out of sight, turned the corner, and crawls into bed, naked, tucking his face into David’s pillow and smelling David’s cologne before he starts crying.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the breakup is anything but simple.

The ringing of the phone is what wakes him. He rolls over, still half-asleep, eyes closed as he reaches blindly for the phone.

“’llo?” he croaks.

“Hi, love.”

“David?”

“No, Gary,” the man says gently, “It’s Jamie. How did it go?”

“Shit,” Gary says shortly, “he sucked my cock and told me he loved me and then I kicked him out of the house and watched him drive away.”

There’s a sharp inhalation and a long, slow exhalation on the other side of the line—Jamie must be shocked. But then, St. James probably never does things like that. He probably never makes mistakes or does cruel things or hurts people. Gary isn’t a saint, though, and he never will be.

“At least he sucked you off,” he tries to joke, and Gary’s lips quirk upwards for half a second.

“Yeah, I’m the only man in the world to get a blowjob off of David Beckham, so I guess that’s something,” he says dryly.

“Oh, _love_.” Jamie’s voice is soft and sympathetic and Gary wants to stretch it out and wrap himself in it, like a soft blanket, wants it to send him off to sleep.

“I know,” Gary says miserably, “I know. I was just so angry at him.”

“It’s okay,” Jamie says quietly, “do you think you can get away? Come see me? We can get shitfaced.”

Gary thinks about it, yearns for it. But there’s training, and then there’s international break. He plays for Manchester United, that’s who he is. He’s been fortunate, to get called up so young for his country, it’s an honor, and it’s one he’s got to live up to, even if England never wins international tournaments and every exit ruins home for him like nothing else.

“Can’t get shitfaced during the season,” he murmurs, “Fergie’d absolutely _gut_ me.”

“I’ll cook you dinner, then? A glass of wine with dinner okay, or not even that?”

The more Gary thinks about it and longs for it, the more possible it starts to feel.

“Yeah-yeah, that might work.” He pauses, wondering why that feels wrong for some reason. “Wait, no! I don’t want you spending money on me, J, I know what your situation is—send that money home, don’t waste it on me.”

“It’s not a waste,” Jamie says simply, “you’re not a waste, Gary Neville. You’re not. It will be a cheap bottle of wine, though. But if you don’t mind that, I’ll cook you dinner sometime, okay? Just let me know when you’re free and I’ll try and rearrange my schedule.”

Gary gives him a date, a weekend off, when he’ll be training, but they won’t play until Monday, and Jamie marks it down. “Wine or no wine, Gaz? If you’re not allowed a glass of wine with your dinner, I won’t get any. I’d never manage to get through the stuff on my own and M—my houseguest hates it. Straight beer men, the pair of us.”

“Me too,” Gary admits, “but can’t have any during the season. Throws off the metabolism.”

“I’ll have to cook really well, then, if you’re gonna be sober enough to actually _taste_ it,” Jamie mutters, and Gary laughs, much to his own surprise, the knot in his chest where his heart was supposed to be loosening slightly.

“I appreciate you calling me back, J. I know you’re busy, I know I was awful, sleeping with him without telling you—“

“You told me, Gary, it’s fine.” Jamie lets out a strained laugh, and Gary regrets ever bringing it up, the way it sours the moment. “You told me the next morning, which is about as soon as you could have, unless you phoned me up while he was still inside you. And I’m glad you didn’t do that, mate, really. We’re friends, but we’re not _that_ close.”

 _We are_ , Gary wants to protest, but it’s not true anymore. They aren’t that close anymore. They hadn’t even talked in a month in a half, until Gary’d called him earlier today.

But it still rankles, being told they’re not close, when there are only two men in the world who know he’s gay and one of them’s Jamie. When Jamie’d talked him through getting himself off, when he’d cooked Jamie breakfast…

He’d never cooked David breakfast, Gary remembers, pulling the phone closer to his ear. There hadn’t been a point, not when David was a better cook.

“We were that close, once.” Gary says the words hesitantly, as if afraid that Jamie will reject the assertion.

“I know,” Jamie says instead, voice full of the quiet, sorrowful regret Gary associated with funerals, “once. But I want to be your friend now. I know you’re hurting, Gary, let me help you.”

“They say the best way to get over one man is to get under another one.” Gary’s voice is light, trying to cover up the fact that he desperately wants it. He can remember their first time now, the way Jamie’d made sure he was there with him instead of letting him imagine him into David. That’s what he needs. Incredible sex from someone he can’t pretend is David.

Jamie chuckles weakly. “They do say that,” he says awkwardly, voice going slightly higher pitched at the end, and Gary doesn’t quite connect the dots for a few seconds, until he does.

“Are you with someone?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” Jamie says quietly, “I can’t really promise you a steady relationship right now, Gary. I can make you dinner, though.”

That’s just about the broadest possible range of outcomes. Where did a one night stand fall on this scale? Sharing the same bed? A blowjob in the shower? A rushed handjob in the morning?

Gary’s thoughts shift, to whoever is making it complicated. It’d be a Scouser, that much Gary knows. Nobody else could spite him like this. They wouldn’t know that they were spiting him, he thinks rationally, it could be a Brummie, one of Jamie’s classmates, but he shoves that rational thought away and stubbornly clings to his suspicions. Maybe it was Michael Owen. Maybe Jamie had a type. Maybe he liked footballers. He certainly liked football, a bit at least, enough to watch sometimes. But maybe that was for Owen, and not for football.

That was the problem with gay men, he muses sardonically, you could never tell whether they were in it for the game or for the men.

“Dinner it is, then.”

“Brilliant!” They agree on a date, and Gary smiles as he hangs up the phone.

Gary Neville’s done impossible things before.

He adds winning Jamie Carragher back to the list. Even if they don’t last forever, he’s the perfect way to forget about his engaged best mate.

\---

 

The morning is less than kind.

He wakes up and instinctively reaches over for a Becks who isn’t there. Carra’s hot enough, certainly, but he can’t compare to his David. Nothing ever can or ever will, he knows in the certainty of the moment, harsh sunlight pouring through the curtains.

On the other side of the curtains is his drive. The drive that David had backed down as he’d left Gary’s house. It would be a long time before he came back, Gary knew. It would have to be.

Even if they had the baby and Victoria went off on tour again, David would just have to learn to cope.

 _Serves him right_ , he thinks viciously for a moment before remembering he’d give anything to have a baby with David. He’d always wanted a family, some day. Another impossible dream to add to the list.

The sun keeps taunting him. There are all of ten sunny days a year in Manchester. Of course fate would have one of them fall on the day after Gary’s heart had been broken.

He gets up and just about manages to make himself a cup of tea and two toasts that he butters and slaps into a sandwich before stuffing down his throat. He considers a shower, but decides against it, his body too heavy to make it worth the effort. He gets dressed in trackies and brushes his teeth so fast that it’s more to check it off the list than to actually clean them.

He drives slowly to training, hoping to put it off as long as he can, but still arrives well in time.

Becks’ car is there already, and he meets his eyes for a fraction of a second as he walks into the locker room. He’s got bags under his eyes. He’s still good-looking, but in a more haggard, less Prince Charming sort of way. There’s a small, brutal sense of satisfaction that blooms in Gary’s chest. _He’s hurting too_. Gary’s glad and shameless about being that way.

He strips facing Becks, not looking at him, but making sure he flexes his abs. It’s petty, but he’s allowed to be petty now, isn’t he? David’s eyes don’t linger—they’re both much too careful for that, but they definitely steal glances at him, and Gary smirks internally. The glances are tinged with hunger.

Gary almost wishes he’d fucked him, almost wishes for a grimace in his face as he walks, for a hesitation before they jog outside during the warmup. It’s the worst part of him, this, wishing harm to his lover— _ex_ -lover, but he can’t quite control it.

Or maybe he could. It doesn’t matter, either way. He doesn’t want to.

Training is different. There’s a rigidity in Gary’s body, and it’s mirrored in David’s. David slips a few times, though, when he scores a goal and rushes into Gary’s arms, only to feel him stiffen up and return the embrace just to avoid causing a scene.

They manage to get through the day, though Scholesy and Phil are both looking at them and each other, exchanging concerned glances. Seeing his best friend and his baby brother worrying like this only makes Gary angrier at David.

He saves a healthy dose of anger for himself, too, though, for even trying with David. He’d had something good with Jamie. He’d been—maybe not perfectly happy, but happier than he had been, at least, and that was gone now. He’d thrown that away to make a pass at his best friend and now he was stuck in an all-around shitty situation. It’s his fault just as much as it is David’s, he knows. It’s his fault that his poor little brother is worrying about him.

Phil takes him aside after training, hand gentle on Gary’s arm.

“Are you and David okay? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two like this,” he says softly. Gary would’ve hit nearly anyone else who’d asked him that question, but he can’t. Not when it’s his baby brother. Not when he’s asking in that quiet voice, as if he’s afraid of what Gary’ll do to him.

“We argued, Philly, that’s all,” Gary says softly, “it’ll blow over. Don’t worry about it, mate.”

Phil looks, if anything, _more_ concerned at his childhood nickname—they’d always kept it reasonably professional at training, even if there was a bit of friendly ribbing between brothers. Gary had been particularly careful with Phil, not to use any embarrassing nicknames that could make things harder for him.

“Do you wanna come and stay with me and Jules for a little bit?” he offers gently.

“No thanks, Phil,” Gary says with a weak smile, “I think I just need a bit of time to myself. Cool down a bit.”

He nods in understanding and hesitates a moment before stepping forward and wrapping Gary in a tight hug.

“Love you, Gare-Bear,” he says, quiet enough that nobody else will hear, and the old nickname brings a smile to Gary’s face.

“Love you too, Philly. Give my love to Jules, yeah?”

Phil nods and walks away, glancing at Scholesy in the way those two did, sometimes, and Scholesy must understand, because he walks off too.

David comes up to him, and Gary’s still wondering where he’s been hiding all this time when he speaks.

“Can we talk?”

“We _are_ talking.” Gary’s old enough not to play this particular trick, but he’s also young enough and hurt enough not to care that he’s being immature.

“Gary.”

It takes all the willpower Gary has not to respond with _David_.

“I think we spoke long enough yesterday, David,” he says instead.

David growls and takes his arm, pushing him against the wall.

Gary very definitely shouldn’t be aroused by it, but he’s ashamed to find that he is. He can smell David’s cologne so clearly after a night away, and he must have just put it on after his shower. His hair is still wet, blond strands drooping just slightly. Strangely enough, he isn’t afraid. He knows he can get out if he needs to get out, and in his mind the scenario plays out.

_Shove David away. “Haven’t you done enough?!” he’d cry. Walk off to salvage what was left of his tattered dignity._

It takes a fraction of a second to play in his head, and he dismisses it out of hand. Instead, he squares his shoulders and straightens up, looking David right in the eyes, utterly fearless.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” he asks harshly.

David doesn’t respond, eyes flicking from his eyes downwards. He presses his hips against Gary’s wordlessly and Gary, caught off guard, can’t quite manage to suppress the soft whimper.

“I think you know exactly what I’m doing, Gary Neville,” he says quietly, leaning down for a kiss.

It is reckless in the extreme. Gary had always been clear on their boundaries, and kissing at the training center or Old Trafford had always been one of them, even though David had wanted to have him in the Old Trafford showers after more than one match.

Then again, Gary Neville wasn’t known for playing it safe. He kisses him back. It’s harsh, teeth biting at lips. David wants to get him back for the blowjob from the previous night, and Gary still wants to punish him for impregnating Victoria.

It’s aggressive, and he feels David lifting his thigh, fingers reaching under—

“Lube,” Gary whispers, “need it—can’t do this without it—“ They could, he knows, but it’s painful. This encounter with David is going to be rough, they’re both still angry at each other, but it isn’t going to be painful. That much he knows. It’ll ache when they sink their teeth into each other, Gary will have scratches on his back and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t leave David with some pretty souvenirs that he’ll have to take home and explain away to his pregnant fiancée, but the sex itself? That won’t hurt.

Underneath it all, they still love each other. Even if it’s doomed, even if they’re fucked, in more ways than one, even if it’s not in the right way, or if it’s not enough, they still love each other.

David pulls away from him, looking around desperately. He can’t come up with anything, then has a moment of realization and dashes off to the physio’s office and comes back with massage oil.

“Shorts off,” he demands shortly, with a grin. Gary doesn’t even mind, just pulls them down and over his feet. He’s still wearing a top, and he’s about to be fucked up against a wall, and in his mind he remembers the last time he’d had sex with Jamie, in the shower with warm water all around them, air heavy with steam and moans. He lifts a leg to wrap around David’s hips and whimpers a little as David opens him up—it is rough, he knew it would be rough, but maybe it’s a little bit rougher than he’d expected, and suddenly part of him aches to be loved.

He doesn’t have the words to tell David that, though. He clutches him closer and kisses his neck desperately, adoringly, wonders how he can say _I would die for you a thousand times, and I would live for you, too, if you asked me to,_ with just his body.

David reacts to the shift in his touch. Gary was the one who’d bitten him first, while they were kissing, and David had matched him, and now that Gary is caressing him, worshipping him, David can’t quite help but soften in turn.

Most of him, at least.

Gary moans quietly and when David pushes into him, he slides up further against the wall than he had intended. He lets David fuck him like that, the other leg lifting once he feels David can support them both.

There’s some pain. It’s in his back, where he’s sliding against the wall, but it’s a quiet, warm pain. It has the decency to stay in the back of his head, while the pleasure jumps right to the front of the queue of emotions waiting to be felt. The pain grows, slowly and steadily, warmth reaching up from the small of his back upwards towards his shoulders.

“Harder.” Gary demands. He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe he wants it to hurt, somewhere in his head. Maybe he wants it to be over, just as much as he wants it to never end.

Whatever he means by the word, David takes it at face value, pounding into him until Gary’s voice fills the locker room, aching and desperate and still, even now, irrevocably in love.

David comes first, but he stays inside him, puts a hand between them to jerk at him clumsily until he gets off, too, with a ragged cry.

“David,” Gary whispers, hissing as he pulls out.

He looks conflicted.

“David. Can we do that again? Not today, but—“

“You’re my roommate this weekend,” David says quietly, pulling his jeans up and buttoning them and redoing his belt before he steps back in and kisses him softly.

“Good night, Gary.” That’s it. He’s gone.

Gary’s the one who stays. He leans against the wall and catches his breath for a moment, and slowly reaches down for his shorts, to pull them back up his waist.

He’s the one who looks for bodily fluids—sweat on the wall, blood, if there’s any—he hadn’t felt any, but there is some, from the friction on his back—semen on the floor that he cleans up silently with damp paper towels before throwing them away and washing his hands. He examines the spot again until he’s convinced that there’s no sign that they’d ever been there, let alone that they’d had sex there. He throws everything away and washes his hands again, because somehow he still feels dirty, and then he goes home alone, walking taking more out of him that he’d thought it would. Training wouldn’t be easy the next few days. Especially if this became a regular thing.

He thinks about Victoria, briefly, idly. He thinks about her when he’s about to take a shower, and when he turns around and looks at his back in the bathroom mirror. He considers her before he goes to bed, wonders if they know the baby’s sex yet, wonders if she and David have sex that rough. Wonders whether she’s better in bed than he is, for a heartbeat and a half before he rolls over and falls asleep, skin scrubbed clean until he can’t feel David’s fingerprints anymore.   
—

  
It's not as hard as he'd thought, being the other man. He doesn't think about it much. It's almost the same as before, only now rooming with Paul means calling Jamie to talk for a couple of minutes while Paul’s showering and rooming with David means kisses and being held at night and maybe a quick handjob at night in place of a sleeping pill, or a blowjob to celebrate a particularly satisfying victory. But rooming with David also means as many rounds as they can get in without compromising their performance. They’re young men yet. They can get in a few before their bodies start protesting.

They don't have proper sex as much as they used to, probably because Victoria's started recording in Manchester and David has a fiancée and a little baby in a perfect round belly to go home to every night and Gary has the quiet and the stillness and his own hand and occasionally, Jamie's voice.

But there’s shower sex, hotel room sex with David’s hand over Gary’s mouth to muffle his moans so their teammates can’t hear. There are blowjobs given for goals and assists, and sometimes David gets on his knees, too, if Gary’s given him an assist that day, or just if he looks particularly handsome.

There’s no more locker room sex, though. Gary comes to his senses pretty quickly on that. Between the kids doing their work exchange, the custodial staff, or even their teammates possibly forgetting something, it’s just not worth the risk. Hell, he doesn’t know how they managed to avoid getting caught the one time they did do it.

David agrees with him, too. He’s engaged now. He can’t be caught fucking a man, when he’s engaged to one of the world’s most beautiful women. He has enough sense to see that, at least.

Their relationship as teammates is about the same as before their blowout. There’s a little bit less affection, but there are stolen glances, moments of heat between two young men, especially on the pitch, when their bodies are flooded with adrenaline. There are kisses, secret pecks on the neck during goal celebrations, a hand that lingers on a behind for a moment too long, or squeezes playfully.

But all in all, it’s not as hard as Gary had thought it would be, really.

David may or may not love him back the same way he loves him, with his whole heart and soul, but Gary gets to have a piece of him anyway.

He hoards their memories. He gets impatient when he gets roomed with Paul, and a little even when he gets roomed with his brother, though he doesn’t get mad at Phil, not really.

\---

 

  
It’s a couple of weeks later that he goes to Jamie’s for dinner. It’s not quite a date, he reminds himself, hands sweating. He’s wearing a white collared shirt and nice jeans, but Jamie answers the door in a t-shirt and track pants, and he tries not to feel a little bit crushed inside.

“Sorry! I didn’t get a chance to get dressed yet,” Jamie says quickly, opening the door and letting him in. “I was cooking, I didn’t want to get my clothes all messy, so I thought I’d wait until after to change, but then I had to redo the pasta sauce. It said to cook it for awhile, but I started reading about adenocarcinomas, and then by the time I finished the chapter, it was starting to smoke and the bottom was all burnt and I had to start again, I don’t think I can even save the pan—“

Gary chuckles and pulls him into a hug.

“You look great, J,” he says fondly. “I brought some extra dessert, it’s cake that I can’t strictly speaking eat, but a few bites won’t hurt.”

“A cake?!” Jamie looks dismayed, “how am I supposed to eat a cake on my own, Gary, I’ve barely got time to go to the gym as it is!”

Gary sees an opportunity and he takes it. “You look incredible, you must be doing something right, love,” he says lightly. He waits for Jamie to call him on it, to call him on the endearment, but he just flushes instead. He takes the cake from Gary’s arms and sets it in the fridge, which looks rather bare, though the stove and counter are loaded with food. There’s pasta with a spicy-smelling sauce, and chicken breasts, seasoned and baked and so tender Gary can almost feel them already falling apart in his mouth.

“Now, lemme check that the chicken is cooked all the way through,” Jamie says anxiously, “let me make sure that it isn’t raw on the inside—I may be a Liverpool supporter, but the last thing I want is you getting sick from something I made you, Gary!”

It’s new, somehow. Something about the feeling in Gary’s chest is new. It’s not that Jamie cooked for him—he’s had that before, even David cooked for him when they were living together, before and during their relationship. It’s not a new environment, though it is rather cleaner than the last two times he’d seen it.

Maybe it’s the lack of anxiety in his chest. Somewhere, sometime between seeing Jamie’s clothes and worrying about being overdressed, and hugging him, it had all melted away.

There had always been anxiety, with David. It was quiet, a lot of the time, it didn’t crop up every second or anything. But he’d felt it in his chest. Every time he hesitated to touch him, every time he rolled over and fell asleep after sex, when he looked at him a moment too long before leaning in for a kiss. Every morning, when he woke up alone and thought for a moment that he had dreamed all of it, before the sound of the shower filtered in, or the sound of whistling from the kitchen, or footsteps muffled by the carpet.

“How’s school?” he asks Jamie, noticing with a smile the new binders filled with labeled notebooks. The first few pages of each book are blank, and then there’s a list of contents, specific diseases and drugs interactions and areas of medicine.

“I’m doing OB/GYN rotations right now. Haven’t seen this many vaginas since I was in the closet,” Jamie says lightly, “delivered a baby a couple weeks ago. His mum named him after me. Little James. Doesn’t look like me, though, all blond hair and these beautiful blue eyes, just like his mumma. But it was an emergency call, and I was the guy on duty, so I got lucky enough to bring little baby James into the world. Cut the cord, cleaned up all the blood off him, and all. After his mum, it was my finger that he held first.”

Gary can’t help but feel a little blown away. “She gave me a picture of him to say thank you, came in yesterday for one of the little one’s checkups. It’s up on the fridge, I like seeing him smiling at me when I wake up grumpy.”

Gary drifts over to the fridge, looking at the picture of the little boy and wonders for a moment if that’s what David’s baby will look like—but no, neither David nor Victoria has blue eyes. If that is what the baby looks like, David will definitely be off the hook, Gary thinks viciously to himself, though part of him recoils at the anger and unkindness of the thought.

“He’s a cutie, isn’t he?” Jamie asks, completely oblivious to Gary’s thoughts. _Jamie deserves better_ , Gary thinks for a moment. _Or maybe he’s getting exactly what he deserves, if he’s not smart enough to get better._

The thought is callous on the one hand, and plainly ridiculous on the other. Jamie’s far and away the wiser of the pair of them, not to mention far, far smarter.

Gary sits down at the barstool next to Jamie, and they both sit there and eat, Jamie chatting about patients and diseases and asking Gary curiously about football and training and laughing at stories about Paul’s antics. He’s rather big brotherly in his _aww_ -ing of Phil’s sweetness.

“How’s your family?” Gary asks politely.

Jamie smiles. “They’re all okay. I had to go back home for awhile, Mum was sick, appendicitis—she called me wondering what would explain the stabbing pain, and I told her to get to the hospital right away, and then I was there by the end of the day, to hold her hand in the hospital room, sign the consent form, make the boys’ dinner and tuck them into bed. But she’s okay now. Likes to joke that we’re matching, since she’s got a little scar left over from the surgery, and I’ve got the mess on my stomach.”

Gary smiles, and asks about the boys, if they’re doing okay in school, if they’re growing well, if they’re still enjoying their football. Jamie loves his family dearly, and it shows when he talks about his younger brothers as if they were his sons, the pride in his eyes when he talks about little Paul getting an A* on an exam, or when John scored the winning goal for his school’s football team.

“I couldn’t make it, I was working,” Jamie explains wistfully, and Gary bites his tongue to keep himself from offering to give Jamie some money so he could take some time off and go visit his family.

They finish up, and Gary stands first, doing the dishes before Jamie can protest, and playfully hip checking him when he tries to take his place at the sink.

“Nope! You cooked, I’ll wash. My mum raised me to have decent manners, you know.”

“Oh? Where have those manners been since I met you?” Jamie teases, though he sits down easily and takes a sip from his beer bottle, the label slick with condensation.

Gary makes a face at him. “Hush, I bought you dinner once!”

“Yeah, that burger was amazing, but I’m pretty sure that’s just because I was starving.”

Gary finishes up the dishes and lets them dry on the rack. “Now what?” he asks, hoping Jamie will take the hint and kiss him.

He just shrugs, though, falling onto the sofa. “Come here. Talk to me, Gaz.”

Gary settles next to him and Jamie wraps an arm around him and it’s exactly the sort of casual physical intimacy that he needs at the moment.

“How are you, Gary?” Jamie asks, voice low, as if he’s talking to an injured animal.

“Better now that I’m here,” Gary admits quietly, “we still sleep together. Me and Becks. We still fuck sometimes. But I feel so bad, J. I feel so bad being his second choice.”

“I know,” Jamie murmurs, “I know it hurts.”

They sit together for awhile longer before Gary turns and leans up for a kiss.

Jamie lets himself be kissed for a moment, but he pulls back a few seconds later.

“I can’t do this right now, Gaz,” he says quietly. “I can’t fill the gap he left behind.”

“I don’t want you to,” Gary says shortly, even though it’s a lie. He leans back in, but Jamie turns so the kiss lands on his cheek.

“I can’t. I’m with someone else.”

Gary freezes. Of course Jamie was with someone else.

“Just my luck,” he says with a weak smile, “all the good ones are taken, looks like.”

“Gary—you were with David. I wanted to let you be happy, but I wanted to be happy, too.”

“And he makes you happy? It’s a he, isn’t it? You’re not with a woman?”

“I’m gay, so no, I’m not with a woman. And he does make me happy. We don’t see each other that often, but he spends a few nights here whenever he can—“

“Is it Michael Owen?”

“No,” Jamie says firmly, and Gary doesn’t know whether or not to believe him, “it’s not Mickey.”

“I called you once, and I heard a voice in the background, was that him?”

“Gary. This really isn’t your business. I haven’t told anyone about you, and I am not going to tell you about him, either.”

Gary can feel the acidity rise in his stomach. “What was this supposed to be, then? Pity date? Or were you planning to fuck me before your conscience kicked in?”

“This was just dinner—dinner with a friend. I thought it would make you feel better—“ Jamie stammers.

“You said you weren’t ready for a relationship anyway,” Gary spits, “that first time, the morning after, when I came back and asked you. That’s what you said.”

Jamie’s spine straightens and his jaw clenches. “Gary. You are not my boyfriend. You never were. It’s really none of your business who I have in my bed. I don’t have to ask your permission to date someone.”

Gary rolls his eyes. “Maybe you aren’t dating anyone even now. Maybe you just don’t want me. Don’t want Becks’ leftovers.”

“That’s not true. Do you want a drink?”

“Fergie will be pissed at me.” Gary hesitates a moment, but rises to his feet and get a bottle of beer anyway.

He drinks half of it in one go, and the other half in the next minute before picking up another one. He sighs. “I’m sorry. You’re just the only one who knows about me and Becks. You’re the only one who knows how I’ve felt, and I just wanted you to make me forget how alone I am.”

After the second beer, Jamie hugs him close again. “You’re not in any fit state to be driving home now, Gaz. Stay the night.”

Gary doesn’t have it in him to protest and just nods, getting up and flopping onto Jamie’s bed, face-first. He can feel Jamie taking off his shoes and shifting him so he’s on his side. He wants to wait for Jamie to crawl into bed with him, wants to be held, but he drifts off before it happens.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, to the sound of Jamie’s neighbors having incredibly loud sex through paper thin walls. He reaches for Jamie, but he’s alone in bed, and the bathroom door is open, so Jamie’s not there, either. He sits up a little, rubbing his eyes and scanning the apartment, until he sees Jamie curled up on the old sofa under a blanket.

He feels awful for having unintentionally stolen Jamie’s bed, but he’d thought they would share it—he gets up and walks over to Jamie’s sofa, lifting the blanket and shoving himself in next to Jamie.

“’M not David, Gaz,” Jamie mumbles, bleary eyes opening.

“I know. Wanna sleep next to someone, though. Please, J?” Jamie nods and opens up his arms and Gary shifts so he’s settled into the embrace.

“You’re gonna wake up with a sore neck, love,” Jamie warns, though he seems resigned to the both of them sleeping on the sofa.

“Don’t care,” Gary mutters, feeling sleep settling nicely over him again. The neighbors have gone quiet—hopefully they’re done for the night. He’s asleep half a minute later.

The next time Gary wakes up, it’s to a puddle of drool under his mouth, sunk into the collar of Jamie’s t-shirt. He can still taste the beer in his mouth, the taste old and stale. It’s embarrassing, to be such a mess.

A few minutes later, Jamie’s shifting, trying to get out from under him. Gary gets up and Jamie apologizes softly.

“Need a piss, love, sorry to wake you.”

Gary lays down afterwards in the warmth Jamie leaves behind, eyes lazily taking in the morning sunlight bathing the apartment. Jamie takes his sweet time, and Gary wonders why until he hears the shower running. No shower sex, then, he thinks mournfully before remembering last night. No sex at all. Not with Jamie, at least.

That doesn’t stop him from taking a nice long look when Jamie steps out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, though. He still has that strong, lean frame, stomach muscles defined and the mess of scar tissue that runs down his belly under the towel.

“Morning,” he mumbles softly.

“Morning, Gaz. I’ll put some coffee on, make some breakfast. You can get some more rest, or you can have a shower and freshen up.”

Gary nods and gets up, yawning as he heads into the bathroom and not realizing until he comes out that he’s got nothing else to wear other than his old wrinkled shirt and jeans. He comes out in a towel and sees the soft sweats Jamie’s laid out for him on the bed, and changes quickly, wondering if Jamie looks at him while he does.

They eat breakfast and drink coffee, and the conversation is stilted as they try to avoid bringing up the argument and the kiss from the night before.

Jamie offers him a hug as they say goodbye, and Gary takes it.

“You can still call me,” Jamie says softly, “if you need someone who knows this part of you, you can still call me.”

Gary nods. “I hope this boyfriend of yours appreciates you properly. You deserve someone wonderful.” He means it, and at the very same time, he doesn’t quite mean it.

 _Fall in love with me. I’m wonderful, or I could be, for you. Be mine, not his, whoever he is._ He could say any of those things, but he doesn’t, because they’re just a little too true for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took me so long to write you guys! But I'd like to thank Eafay for helping me beta it and putting a finger on what was wrong with what I could only describe as the ugh ending of the first draft.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw anxiety, tw panic attacks
> 
> Things get kind of real in this chapter, so please be prepared for that.

Gary doesn’t call. Jamie calls him once, or twice, and leaves messages both times, but Gary doesn’t call him back.

He means to, originally. But day after day slips by, between waking up, training, extra training, showers, naps, dinner, and bed. Eventually it’s just too late, and every excuse Gary can think of sounds stupid.

Maybe it’s better to let the relationship die there, he thinks. It was a freak accident, the whole thing, really. Him going to that club, him finding Jamie, him staying with him, and then being with David. It was never going to last, and if it was going to end, better to end it on his terms.

The season is quickly winding down, and they’re comfortable, performing well in everything. Gary swears off men and decides that his first love is the only one he needs. So he throws himself into his work. He trains harder than anyone else on the team, and when the rest of the boys go home, he trains more, runs faster and longer, lifts more weights and takes more free kicks and does more drills.

It reaches the point where one of the medical personnel pulls him aside one day, telling him that if he keeps pushing himself like this, he might end up with a stress fracture. Gary pretends not to care, but he’s only pretending, and if he loses this, he won’t have anything left, so he eases up, lightens up on the running but keeps the extra weight training. He restricts his diet, and it shows in his body.

He’d always been lean, but his cheeks grow almost gaunt in appearance. The dark circles under his eyes don’t help, either. He spends much of the night watching hospital dramas on telly and falls asleep on the sofa most nights. He bulks up, with broader shoulders and bigger arms and muscles in his back that he had never seen before.

David looks at him, sometimes, with desire in his eyes. He likes Gary’s new body—Gary can tell, in the long looks he feels on his skin.

Gary ignores him. He stops sleeping with him altogether, asks to be roomed with Scholesy and Phil whenever possible. He’s polite to David, but cold, too.

Phil looks at him too, but with worry. He doesn’t care about the muscles, he’s concerned about the dark circles and the hollow cheeks. Gary stops shaving for awhile, half out of laziness, and half trying to hide how unhealthy his face looks.

Scholesy lets things go, though he keeps a sharp eye on Gary’s food and often encourages him to eat more.

Their last match of the season is the Champions League final, which they win, and for a few hours, the numbness fades and bright, shallow joy fills Gary’s heart. He kisses the cup and tries not to wish it was warm and Scouse and kissing him back.

By that night, though, the joy is gone. He smiles faintly when he thinks about it, the memory still fresh, but it’s not enough to live on. He would know. He’d tried.

Scholesy shows up at his front door a day after they get back home, after they do the parades and raise the trophy and share their glory with the people who love them.

Gary opens it, and Scholesy pushes past him, not waiting to be invited in. He heads into the living room and sits down, Gary sitting next to him.

“What’s going on, Gaz?” His voice is soft, and Scholesy’s voice is never soft, and that’s a clue in itself as to how bad Gary must look.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

Paul shakes his head. “You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

It breaks Gary’s heart, hearing Paul’s voice all low and soft, as if he’s an injured animal. He doesn’t have the strength to resist, and he shifts closer to his best friend and leans against him.

“Remember I had that… partner, awhile back? We used to talk on the phone all the time?”

Paul puts an arm around him, and Gary rests his head on his friend’s shoulder, slightly too short for comfort, but he doesn’t care. “Yeah, Gaz, I remember. You used to be so happy.”

“Didn’t last,” Gary mutters, “they found out I was—I was in love with someone else. Had been for a long time. It didn’t even end badly, it just faded away.”

“Who were you in love with?”

Gary looks up at Scholesy, eyes wide and sad. “I think you know,” he whispers.

“Oh, Gary.” Paul’s voice is sympathetic and almost tender as he hugs Gary closer, “I’m so sorry. It must have broken your heart when he got engaged.”

Gary lets out a choked sob. “It did. We slept together. We were still sleeping together when he told me she was pregnant. And then I—I kept sleeping with him, even after he got engaged. I just—I don’t know. I guess I didn’t care, or I thought he was only with her because she got knocked up and he really loved me? Wanted my ex back after I found out, but he’s moved on, just wanted to be friends—“

Scholesy must be shocked, knowing that two of his friends and teammates had been sleeping together, but he doesn’t show it.

Gary calms down, no longer crying, and sighs against Paul’s chest. “Gave up on Becks, eventually. Threw myself into training. Tried to fill the gap with football.” He sighs. “I love football, but it’s not enough to live on, Scholesy.”

“I know,” Paul murmurs, holding him close, “I know, Gary. What do you need? How can I help?”

Gary’s on the verge of asking for sex, but Paul’s the only person he’s got left, and he’s not going to risk this. Besides, he’s the straightest man Gary’s ever met, and David had taught him that there was no way back, once you slept with someone.

“Stay the night?” he asks instead, “just—I hate sleeping alone. J had the tiniest little bed, and we basically _had_ to cuddle if one of us didn’t want to fall off, and David used to hold me. And I miss that.”

Paul nods. “Of course, mate. I’ll stay the night. I’ll even move in here for a bit, if you want me to, keep you from being alone all day.”

It’s tempting, but Gary’s afraid of asking too much. He thinks he might always be afraid of asking too much. “Let’s try tonight first. If that works out, maybe you can come stay for a little while?”

Paul smiles. “Okay, mate. Let’s go upstairs then, get ready for bed.”

He lends Paul some of his clothes, and the pants are a little too long, and Gary smiles, seeing his clothes drowning his best friend. “You look adorable,” he teases.

Paul grins, flapping his arms so the sleeves fly around. “Come on, then, bedtime.”

They both get into bed together and it’s awkward, but in a strange way, it’s also not awkward at all. He’s laying in bed with his best friend, both on their backs and looking up at the ceiling.

Paul turns onto his side, propping his head up on his head as he looks at Gary. “When did you realize you liked boys?” he asks, half-afraid it’s asking for too much.

“Thirteen,” Gary says, the memory stark in his mind, “or I guess before that, but thirteen was when I made a move on a boy for the first time. There was this cricketer at school, and I used to feel him looking at me when I was changing, you know? And it felt good, made me feel like I was worth looking at, at least. So one day we were the only two in the dressing room and I walked over and kissed him.”

“What happened after that?”

“He shoved me away and punched me in the face,” Gary says bluntly, “broke my nose, that’s why it’s crooked now.”

“ _Shit_.”

“Yeah,” Gary agrees, “didn’t pursue anyone after that. Not until after the World Cup. I just wanted to forget, and forgetting meant going out to a club and letting a stranger take me home. And that stranger was J. Probably one of the best things to ever happen to me. So of course I fucked it up.”

“J?” Scholesy doesn’t complete the sentence but Gary knows what he means.

“Jamie,” he says, voice fond as he remembers that first night, “he’s studying to be a doctor, Scholesy. He’s just gorgeous. Works himself half to death, brilliant student, sends money home to his mum to help his little brothers buy whatever they need.”

“He sounds amazing,” Paul agrees, looking at the faraway expression in Gary’s eyes.

“He is. He’s going to do so much good in the world. I’m so glad I got to meet him.”

“Are you sure you can’t save it?”

“He has a boyfriend,” Gary says, “some lad who’s been in love with him since they were kids. Can’t compete with that.”

“I’m sorry, Gaz. And I’m sorry you had to go through that alone.”

Gary just sighs and shifts so he’s resting his head on Paul’s shoulder, letting his eyes close. “Night, Scholesy.”

Paul takes the hint and goes quiet until they both fall asleep.  
\---

Paul ends up staying for a week, and they cook and watch telly and order takeout and Gary feels like he’s not alone, for once.

Maybe he just needs a roommate.

He’s still staying when the phone rings, and Paul picks up, because Gary’s half-asleep in front of the telly.

“Hello? Who is this? Mate, calm down, take a breath, I can’t understand you—“

He pauses, and shakes Gary’s shoulder. “I think you need to take this one, Gaz. The guy seems upset.”

Gary opens his eyes and turns off the telly.

"Hullo?" He asks, yawning in the middle of the word.

"Gary?" The voice on the line sounds young and devastated.

"Jamie? What's wrong? You never call anymore."

"I didn't know who else to call. I didn't want to—are you busy? If you're busy, this isn't important, I can call back—"

"You're crying, J," Gary says softly, "it is important."

"You know I told you we have rotations? I'm—I'm on peds now. Pediatrics? Fuck, Gaz, I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't be a doctor, I _can't_ —"

"Shh, calm down, love. Breathe with me, okay? Do you want me to come see you?"

"I—no, I'm okay—" Jamie's still crying.

"You're not okay, Carra. Talk to me here, okay? And I'll come by after we finish talking, I'll drive down to see you."

"He looked like my brother." Jamie whispers.

"Who did, love?"

"The kid. Luke, his name was. He looked like Paulie, Gary, and we couldn't save him, we couldn't save him! And his mother was there, his mother was crying and crying and I wanted to cry too but you're not allowed to cry, because what have I lost? She lost her _baby_ , I just lost a patient, and he looked like Paulie when Paulie was his age, but he was so skinny, so, so fucking skinny, Gary, the size of a three year old, the tiniest little kid, and I couldn't do it, we couldn't do it—"

Gary's heart shatters.

"I did this so I can save people's babies, not kill them, Gary, I— _I killed him_. Me and the resident and the attending, we as good as slit his throat, we failed him, _I_ failed him—"

"Baby? Don't do anything, okay? I need you to listen to me, sweetheart. I need you to have a warm shower, put on some gentle music, don’t try to drink it away—promise me you won’t drink, love. I'm going to leave now, I'll be there soon and I'll take care of everything, I'll take care of you--"

"It's too late, it's too late—" Jamie wails, breath catching in his lungs, "I can't breathe, Gaz, there's—feels like a rock on my chest, I don't know what to do, he's gone, he looked like Paulie, I wonder if he had a brother—if your brother dies do you stop being a brother, Gary? If you only have part of the equation left, if suddenly you're an only child, do you stop being a brother? Oh god, Gary, what if Paulie dies? What if he and John die, and I'm not a brother anymore? I don't know how to be anything else, I sure as _fuck_ can't be a doctor—Gary, Gary I can't—can't _breathe_ —“

“Sweetheart, close your eyes for me, okay?” Gary says softly, “close your eyes. I want you to take a slow inhale, count to four while you breathe in and hold that air in your lungs for a count of five and then let it out slowly, with a count of three. Can you do that for me? I’ll count for you, okay? Ready, inhale, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four, five. Now exhale slow for me, baby, two three. Can you hold onto that pattern for me Jamie?”

“I think so,” Jamie whispers.

“Good boy! I’m going to come see you, okay? I’m coming to take care of you. If you need help while I’m driving over, you call this number, okay? My friend Paul is here, and he’ll try to help you, and I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” Jamie agrees.

“Keep up that count for me, J, Paul can help you if you’re struggling with it, and I’m going to leave now so I can be with you and hold you.”

“Drive safe,” Jamie orders, still a little breathless, “baby, you have to drive safe. Promise me! And wear your seatbelt. Don’t go too fast, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Gary shushes him softly. “I’m going to be very careful on the road, love. I promise I won’t get into any trouble and I’ll be there to hold you as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” Jamie whispers.

“Of course, love. Be brave for me until I get there.”

“I’ll try.”

Gary drives fast, but he can’t forget Jamie’s voice, concerned for him and making him promise to be safe, so he’s careful, too. Still, in record time, he’s knocking on the door of Jamie’s flat and Jamie opens the door with a look of utter relief on his face.

“You made it,” he says softly, “you made it here safely. I was so worried you’d get hurt or worse—“

Gary wraps him in his arms and kicks the door closed behind him. “Hi, love. Talk to me?”

Jamie shakes his head. “Can we just go to bed? I’m so tired, Gary. And I’ve missed you but you never called me back.”

“I thought you wouldn’t want me to,” Gary lies, “thought I should just let you be happy with your new boyfriend.”

Jamie goes quiet but pulls him over to his bed, clambering under the thick blanket and pulling Gary with him. “I missed this,” he confesses, almost as if he’s reading Gary’s mind, “bed isn’t too big without you, but it gets cold. And my lad never stays over. He can’t.”

“I missed it too. I’ve had poor Paul suffering through sleeping next to me, but he’s such a decent friend he doesn’t put up a fuss about it.”

“You look tired,” Jamie says softly, eyes open and guileless as he looks at Gary’s face. “Have you been sick?” He reaches a hand out to trace Gary’s jaw, and Gary covers Jamie’s hand with his own.

“Insomnia.”

Jamie hums. “I hate when that happens.”

“I think I’ll sleep okay tonight, though, with you. I always sleep well in your bed.”

Jamie chuckles.

“Talk to me about today,” Gary says quietly.

“There was a five year old boy. He was so tiny, it would break your heart to see him. His arms and legs were like twigs. And his belly was all swollen. He’d been sick so long he couldn’t keep food down, so he was on a drip. He was bald, from the chemo. You know it makes you lose your hair, but you don’t consider that they lose their eyebrows too. Even his eyelashes thinned out.”

Gary strokes his back, holding him close. “He was doing better, but then he caught an infection and developed pneumonia. The chemo knocked his immunse system out, pretty much, so he couldn’t fight it off. We were pumping him full of antibiotics, but it wasn’t enough. He went into sepsis—kidneys failed, then liver, lungs went next. We put him on a ventilator to breathe for him, and then his heart just stopped. Asystole. We tried the defibrillator four times, even though two is the max. The attending didn’t have it in her to tell the resident to stop. And then we had to go outside and tell his mother and brother.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Gary whispers, awed at how much Jamie had dealt with, and not altogether surprised that he’d had a bit of a nervous breakdown over it.

“She was just in shock. Like, she’d been in the hospital so long, held her little boy’s hand while he was fighting. I don’t think she ever thought he could really die. And his little brother was there, he just kept asking when Luke could come home. He wanted to show him what he’d drawn at school, wanted to play with him. He said he knew Luke couldn’t play football anymore and he got tired, but he wanted to play a board game with him instead. And then his mother started crying, just started _crying_ , and he—oh, Gary—he tried to _comfort_ her. This three-year-old boy, hugging his mum’s legs and telling her it would be okay, because he didn’t know his brother was _dead_ —“

Jamie starts crying again.

Gary has no words for this sort of situation. He just hugs him and wishes he could take his pain away.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” Jamie confesses, “Mickey—he’s too young to be dealing with my shit on top of his own. And I couldn’t tell my mum or I’d just absolutely fall apart. Still fell apart telling you, even.”

Gary kisses Jamie’s cheeks, and the skin is damp under his lips. “Have you had that before?” he asks softly, “the not being able to breathe?”

“Panic attack,” Jamie whispers, “it’s been a long time since I had one. I used to get them a lot, when I first started medical school. Sometimes before a shift, too. More when I’m overworked or hypoglycemic or stressed out. I can’t really function when I have one, but I can at least hide it. And I can follow commands, simple ones.”

“Do you usually call for help when you have one?”

Jamie shakes his head no. “I just needed to this time. I couldn’t breathe. I needed to hear your voice. Needed to hear you telling me it would be okay.”

Gary’s heart swells, and suddenly he regrets not calling Jamie back either of the two times he’d called. He pulls away from him, and looks into his eyes, wide and wet and blue, and leans down to kiss him.

Jamie kisses him back, soft and chaste, with their mouths closed. But even that is enough. It’s more than enough. It’s not Gary trying to get off, or Jamie feeling sorry for him. It’s both of them, finding comfort in each other. Gary wishes Jamie didn’t feel so awful, but he doesn’t quite mind the end result, the two of them cuddled up together like old times.

“Thank you for coming,” Jamie whispers, “I know we didn’t end things on a good note, and I know you’re heartbroken. But thank you for coming when I needed you. It means a lot.”

Gary smiles at him and pulls him in close again. “We could not talk for five years, and if you called me then, I would come,” he says, and it might not be true exactly, but he believes it as he says it, and that’ll have to be enough.

Jamie’s still asleep in his arms when Gary wakes in the morning. He looks younger in his sleep, hair mussed and body warm and relaxed. Gary leans down and kisses his hair, almost without thinking.

Jamie hums and lets out a soft breath, the air warm against Gary’s neck.

Gary smiles and tries to extricate himself from Jamie’s hold.

Unsuccessfully.

Jamie wakes instead, and looks up at him, bleary-eyed and letting out a yawn. “Morning, love,” he says with a sleepy smile, and Gary’s heart melts in his chest.

“Morning, J. I’m not trying to leave, I just need a piss.”

Jamie makes a face, but lets him go eventually, shifting into the warmth he leaves behind and letting his eyes close again.

Gary climbs back in and settles in Jamie’s old spot, not quite touching him because his hands are cold from washing in frigid water.

Jamie turns and looks at him. “Stay,” he whispers, “stay today. Don’t have to go in—attending gave me the day off after she saw what a wreck I was. And I can’t work yet. I’m not ready.”

Gary had no plans to leave even before that, but after, wild horses couldn’t drag him away.

“I’m staying, baby, I promise. And if I’m staying, I’m looking after you, J. You need a few decent meals. I’m taking you out to lunch. Maybe dinner, too. And ice cream. You look thinner than before, love, you need to eat up.”

“You’re one to talk,” Jamie says, caressing Gary’s cheek, “if your cheeks were any more hollow, I’d be able to see your teeth. And it’s the offseason, so eating healthy can’t be your excuse anymore. I want you to look like you did the first time I saw you, beautiful and healthy again. And the muscles are hot, but we don’t have space in my tiny bed for extra-sexy Gary!”

Gary laughs at that, though his heart warms at the implication that Gary’s going to be in Jamie’s bed again sometime.

“What about your boyfriend?” he asks softly.

Jamie shrugs. “I’m thinking about calling it off. We don’t have time for each other. And I can’t talk to him about work, it upset him too much.”

“You’re still with him?” Gary asks, remembering how he’d kissed Jamie the night before.

“If I said yes, would you get out of my bed?” Jamie asks, a strange look in his eyes.

“I might do,” Gary admits.

“Then no. I’m not still with him.”

Gary leans in and kisses him. “I wouldn’t care if you were,” he whispers, remembering how David had been Victoria’s the whole time, and he hadn’t cared. Then he thinks about how that had ended, how broken he’d been when it was over, and he thinks maybe that’s not true. Maybe he would care, if he wasn’t desperate and lonely with a warm man in his arms who cared about him, even if he didn’t quite love him.

He wonders, though. The Jamie he’d met that first day would not have cheated on his boyfriend. He’d been pure, virtuous even despite the shit he’d had to deal with. Gary wonders if it’s his fault. If he’s the one who ruined Jamie’s snow-white soul with his inky fingerprints as he pressed bruises into his hipbones on a moonlit night.

It makes him feel almost sick, thinking that he might have been responsible for Jamie being a worse person.

It makes him even sicker that he doesn’t regret it.

Between the choice of never meeting Jamie and ruining him, he’d ruin him every single time. 

**Author's Note:**

> So... this was supposed to be a quick Carraville meet at a bar and hook up fic. Gary, I blame you for catching feelings. Jamie, I blame you for being ridiculously attractive as a medical student. And I blame myself for making Jamie Carragher a nerd, apologies to the world.
> 
> However, because this Carra has well and properly wormed his way into my head, I'm considering adding more to this at some point. Let me know if that's something you'd be interested in/what aspects or elements of the story you'd specifically like to see expanded on!
> 
> Also the history stuff is straight up me, so that shit is really what I think. The medical stuff is me creatively putting jargon down based off of what I know, which is just slightly more than nothing.


End file.
